' 


A  COUNTRY  IDYL- 


•• 


A    COUNTRY    IDYL 


AND 


OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

SARAH    KNOWLES    BOLTON 

AUTHOR    OF  "  POOR   BOYS   WHO    BECAME   FAMOUS,"   "  GIRLS   WHO  BE- 
CAME    FAMOUS,"    "  FAMOUS    AMERICAN   AUTHORS,"     "  FAMOUS 
AMERICAN     STATESMEN,"      "  FAMOUS      MEN     OF     SCIENCE," 
"  FAMOUS    EUROPEAN     ARTISTS,"     "  FAMOUS     TYPES    OF 
WOMANHOOD,"      "  STORIES      FROM       LIFE,"      "FROM 
HEART  AND  NATURE"  (POEMS),    "FAMOUS  ENG- 
LISH AUTHORS,"  "  FAMOUS  ENGLISH  STATES- 
MEN," "  FAMOUS  VOYAGERS,"  "  FAMOUS 
LEADERS  AMONG  WOMEN,"  "  FAMOUS 
LEADERS  AMONG  MEN,"  "  SOCIAL 
STUDIES  IN  ENGLAND,"  "  THE 
INEVITABLE,  AND   OTHER 
POEMS,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  46  EAST  FOURTEENTH  STREET 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL  &   COMPANY 

BOSTON:   100  PURCHASE  STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1898, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CBOWKLL  &  COMPANY. 


20617G1 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  COUNTRY  IDYL 5 

THE  SECOND  TIME 14 

FIFTEEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 22 

THE  RING  OF  GOLD 27 

FOUR  LETTERS     ........  35 

REWARDED 47 

THE  UNOPENED  LETTER 58 

THREE  COLLEGE  STUDENTS       .....  61 

THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR  SOCIETY 78 

SLAVE  AMY 90 

LIKE  OUR  NEIGHBORS  .......  93 

Two  AT  ONCE 97 

THE  HOUSE-WARMING 101 

HANNAH  AND  JOE     .......  106 

BURTON  CONE'S  REASON 114 

UNSUITABLE 134 

PLAYING  WITH  HEARTS         ......  143 

DUTY 153 

WAIFY 165 

THE  BLACK  AND  TAN 179 

THE  CHRISTIAN  HUNTER 188 

LOVE'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT 193 

AN  UNFORTUNATE  SAIL        ......  200 

A  NEW  KIND  OF  WEDDING 213 

LOST  HIS  PLACE 221 

STRUCK  IT  RICH 229 

FOOD  AT  THE  DOOR 236 

How  THE  DOG  TAX  WAS  PAID         ....  242 

THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS 252 


A   COUNTRY   IDYL 

AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


A   COUNTRY   IDYL. 

TN  the  midst  of  New  England  mountains, 
-*•  covered  with  pine  and  cedar,  lies  the  quiet 
town  of  Nineveh,  looking  towards  the  sea. 
Years  ago  it  had  mills  where  lumber  was  sawed 
and  grain  was  ground ;  but  now  the  old  wheels 
alone  are  left,  the  dams  are  broken,  and  the 
water  falls  over  the  scattered  rocks,  making 
music  in  harmony  with  the  winds  among  the 
pines.  The  houses  have  gone  to  decay ;  the 
roofs  have  fallen  in,  leaving  the  great,  rough 
chimneys  standing  like  the  Druid  towers  of 
Ireland. 

In  one  of  these  old  houses,  before  the  young 
men  of  New  England  had  gone  West  to  seek 
their  fortunes,  lived  a  miller  and  his  wife.  The 
Crandall  family  were  happy,  save  that  no  chil- 
dren had  come  into  the  home.  Finally  a  sister 


6  A    COUNTRY  IDYL. 

of  the  wife  died,  bequeathing  her  little  girl  to 
the  Nineveh  household. 

Nellie  Crandall  grew  from  babyhood  the 
picture  of  health,  an  innocent,  cheerful  girl,  in 
sweet  accord  with  the  daisies  of  the  fields  and 
the  old-fashioned  flowers  she  cared  for  in  her 
foster-mother's  garden. 

In  the  house  across  the  way  lived  John 
Harding,  a  tall,  awkward  boy,  the  pride  of  the 
country  school  for  his  good  scholarship,  and  in 
principle  as  strong  as  the  New  England  hills  he 
lived  among. 

John  and  Nellie  had  played  together  from 
childhood.  He  had  made  chains  for  her  neck 
of  the  pine  needles ;  she  had  fastened  golden 
coreopsis  in  his  homespun  coat;  and,  while  no 
word  had  been  spoken,  the  neighboring  people 
expected  that  a  new  house  would  sometime  be 
built  in  Nineveh,  and  a  young  couple  begin 
anew  the  beautiful  commonplaces  of  life. 

There  was  considerable  excitement  one  morn- 
ing in  the  quiet  town.  Byron  Marshall,  a  city 
youth,  had  come  to  Nineveh  to  visit  the  Mon- 
roe family,  cousins  of  the  Hardings.  Byron 
was  a  handsome,  slender  lad,  well-mannered, 


A    COUNTRY  IDYL.  J 

just  leaving  college  and  ready  for  a  profession. 
He  met  Nellie  Crandall,  and  was  pleased  with 
the  natural  country  girl. 

"  No  good  '11  come  of  it,"  said  one  of  the  old 
ladies  of  Nineveh.  "  I  never  believed  in  mis- 
mating.  John  Harding  would  give  his  life  for 
that  girl,  while  the  city  youth,  I  know,  is  a 
selfish  fellow." 

The  summer  wore  away  with  rides  and  pic- 
nics, and  if  John's  heart  was  pained  at  the 
attentions  given  to  Nellie,  and  accepted  by  her, 
he  said  nothing. 

After  Byron's  return  to  the  city  a  corre- 
spondence was  begun  by  him. 

One  Sunday  evening,  when  John  came  as 
usual  to  see  Nellie,  and  they  were  sitting  in  the 
moonlight  beside  the  old  mill  at  the  bridge,  he 
said  abruptly,  "  I  'm  going  away  from  home, 
Nellie.  I  have  begun  to  think  you  would  n't 
mind  since  Byron  came." 

"But  I  do  mind,"  said  the  girl.  "I  like 
Bryon,  and  he  seems  fond  of  me ;  but,  John,  I 
don't  want  you  to  go,  we  Ve  been  such  good 
friends." 

"  Yes,    but   we    must  be   all    in    all   to   each 


8  A    COUNTRY  IDYL. 

other  or  I  can't  stay.  I  Ve  loved  you  all  these 
years  with  never  a  thought  of  another.  I  Ve 
loved  every  flower  in  your  garden  because  you 
have  tended  it.  This  old  mill  seems  precious 
because  you  have  sat  here.  All  Nineveh  is 
sacred  to  me  because  it  is  your  home,  but  I 
cannot  stay  here  now." 

Nellie  was  young ;  she  had  seen  little  of  the 
world,  did  not  know  the  true  from  the  false, 
and,  half  captivated  with  the  college  youth,  she 
dare  not  give  her  promise  to  John. 

They  parted  in  the  moonlight,  he  heavy  of 
heart  at  going  and  she  regretting  that  two 
loved  her.  John  went  to  a  distant  State  and 
found  employment.  No  word  came  from  him, 
and  Nellie,  who  missed  him  sadly,  depended 
more  than  ever  on  the  letters  which  came  from 
Byron. 

The  next  summer  Byron  spent  at  Nineveh, 
and  it  was  talked  about  the  little  town  that 
Nellie  was  engaged,  and  would  soon  be  a  city 
lady,  living  in  comfort  and  prominence. 

Two  years  later  there  was  a  wedding  at  the 
Crandall  home,  and  the  pretty  bride  said  good- 
by  to  the  old  mill  and  the  great  pines,  and  left 


A    COUNTRY  IDYL.  9 

the  miller  and  his  wife  desolate.  Two  years 
afterwards,  when  she  brought  back  a  little  son, 
named  Samuel,  after  the  miller,  they  were  in  a 
measure  comforted,  though  they  never  liked 
Byron  as  well  as  John,  "  who  was  of  their  kind." 

When  John  Harding  knew  that  Nellie  was 
really  lost  to  him  and  married  to  another,  he, 
longing  for  companionship,  married  a  worthy 
girl,  prospered  in  business,  and  was  as  happy 
as  a  man  can  be  who  does  not  possess  the 
power  to  forget.  He  had  learned  what  most 
of  us  learn  sooner  or  later  —  that  life  does  not 
pass  according  to  our  plan,  plan  we  ever  so 
wisely;  that,  broken  and  marred,  we  have  to 
take  up  the  years  and  make  the  mosaic  as  per- 
fect as  we  can. 

As  time  passed  some  of  the  Nineveh  families 
died,  and  some  moved  away  to  other  and  busier 
scenes.  Samuel  Crandall  had  been  laid  in  the 
little  cemetery,  and  Mrs.  Crandall  was  more 
lonely  than  ever. 

One  night  there  came  a  wagon  to  the  door, 
and  Nellie  Marshall,  her  face  stained  with  tears, 
alighted,  with  her  three  children.  "  We  have 
come  to  stay,  mother,"  said  the  broken-hearted 


IO  A    COUNTRY  IDYL. 

woman.  "  Byron  has  gone,  nobody  knows 
where.  He  has  used  the  money  of  others,  and 
we  are  penniless." 

Mrs.  Crandall  wept  on  her  daughter's  neck, 
as  she  told  somewhat  of  the  hardships  of  her 
life  with  her  unfaithful  and  dishonest  husband. 

Other  years  passed,  and  another  grave  was 
made  beside  that  of  Samuel  Crandall,  and  Mrs. 
Marshall,  now  grown  white-haired,  lived  for  her 
three  children,  and  reared  them  as  best  she 
could  in  their  poverty. 

One  day  there  was  a  rumor  in  the  town  that 
John  Harding  was  coming  to  Nineveh  on  a  visit. 
He  was  well-to-do  now,  and  would  come  in  a 
style  befitting  his  position.  Mrs.  Marshall  won- 
dered if  he  would  call  upon  her,  and  if  he  would 
bring  Mrs.  Harding  to  see  the  woman  so  changed 
from  her  girlhood  in  looks,  but  nobler  and 
sweeter  in  character. 

Mr.  Harding  had  been  in  Nineveh  for  a  week. 
Nellie  Marshall  had  heard  of  it,  and  her  heart 
beat  more  quickly  at  any  footstep  on  the 
threshold.  One  moonlight  night  she  could 
not  resist  putting  just  one  spray  of  golden 
coreopsis  in  the  buttonhole  of  her  black  dress, 


A    COUNTRY  IDYL.  II 

for  if  he  should  come  that  night  he  would  like 
to  see  it,  perhaps ;  for,  after  all,  women  do  not 
forget  any  more  than  men. 

About  eight  o'clock  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door;  she  was  agitated.  "Why  should  I 
be?  He  is  married,"  she  assured  herself. 

She  opened  the  door,  and  John,  grown 
stouter  in  form  and  more  attractive  in  face  than 
ever,  stood  before  her.  He  met  her  cordially, 
talked  with  the  children,  and  seemed  more  joy- 
ous than  when  a  boy. 

"And  where  is  Mrs.  Harding?"  Nellie  fi- 
nally found  the  courage  to  ask. 

"  She  is  not  with  me,"  was  the  answer. 

The  call,  really  a  long  one,  seemed  short. 

"  When  do  you  leave  for  the  West,  Mr. 
Harding?"  She  had  almost  said  "  John,"  for 
she  had  thought  of  him  all  these  years  by  the 
old  familiar  name. 

"  Not  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  I  shall  see 
you  again." 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  he  did  not  come. 
And  now  she  realized,  as  she  had  never  before, 
that  this  was  the  only  man  she  had  ever  loved ; 
that  his  presence  made  day,  his  absence 


12  A    COUNTRY  IDYL. 

night ;  that  she  had  loved  him  from  childhood. 
And  now  all  was  too  late. 

The  time  came  for  him  to  return  to  the  West, 
and  once  more  he  stood  by  the  flower-beds 
along  the  walk  to  the  Nineveh  house,  this  time 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting  over  the  cedars.  He 
kissed  the  children.  "  I  have  none  of  my 
own,"  he  said,  and  took  Nellie's  hand,  hold- 
ing it  a  little  longer  than  he  had  held  it  be- 
fore. Her  lips  trembled,  and  her  eyes  must 
have  told  all  her  heart. 

"  I  have  felt  so  deeply  for  you,"  he  said  ;  and 
his  own  voice  grew  tremulous.  "  And  will  you 
let  me  leave  this  little  remembrance  for  the 
children?"  He  slipped  a  roll  of  bills  into  her 
hand,  and  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

Weeks  passed,  and  finally  a  letter  came.  She 
knew  the  handwriting.  What  could  John  wish 
of  her?  Perhaps  he  was  inclined  to  adopt  one 
of  her  children,  and,  if  so,  which  could  she 
spare  ? 

Not  the  oldest  boy,  for  he  was  her  pride ; 
not  the  second,  a  girl,  who  was  her  comfort  and 
companion ;  not  the  youngest,  for  somehow  he 
looked  like  John,  and  he  was  dearer  to  her  than 


A    COUNTRY  IDYL.  13 

all  beside.  When  Byron  was  unkind  her  heart 
always  turned  to  John,  and  perchance  stamped 
her  thoughts  upon  the  open,  frank  face  of  her 
youngest  child. 

She  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket ;  she  must 
be  calm  before  she  read  it.  She  would  go  out 
and  sit  by  the  mill  where  he  and  she  sat 
together.  She  opened  it  there  and  read : 

MY  DEAR  OLD-TIME  FRIEND:  I  am  alone  in  the 
world.  I  told  you  my  wife  was  not  with  me.  She  died 
some  years  ago.  I  wanted  to  see  if  you  loved  me,  as  I 
believed  you  did.  I  hope  and  believe  you  do  still.  You 
know  me  better  than  any  one  else,  and  you  know  whether 
I  should  care  tenderly  for  your  children.  If  you  are  will- 
ing to  come  and  brighten  my  home,  say  so.  How  I 
longed  to  fold  you  in  my  arms  as  I  left  you,  but  restrained 
myself  !  Telegraph  me  if  I  shall  come  to  take  you. 

A  message  was  sent  from  Nineveh :  "  Come." 
The  Crandall  home  has  fallen  like  the  others. 
The  flower-beds  have  vanished,  save  here  and 
there  a  self-sown  golden  coreopsis  grows  among 
the  weeds.  The  moon  shines  silently  upon  the 
mill  as  of  old.  The  few  remaining  aged  people 
of  Nineveh  still  tell  of  the  faithful  love  of  John 
Harding  for  the  miller's  adopted  daughter. 


THE   SECOND   TIME. 

r  I  "HE  Hon.  John  Crawford  had  become  a 
•*-  prominent  man  in  his  community.  He 
had  begun  life  in  poverty,  had  learned  econ- 
omy early,  and  fortunately  had  married  a  girl 
with  tastes  and  habits  similar  to  his  own.  Both 
desired  to  rise  in  the  world,  and  she,  forgetting 
herself,  bent  all  her  energies  toward  his  prog- 
ress and  success.  She  did  her  own  house- 
work for  years,  made  her  own  clothes  and  those 
of  her  children,  and  in  every  way  saved,  that 
John  might  be  rich  and  influential.  Her  his- 
tory was  like  that  of  thousands  of  other  New 
New  England  women  —  she  wore  herself  out 
for  her  family.  She  never  had  time  for  social 
life,  and  not  a  very  great  amount  of  time  for 
reading,  though  she  kept  up  as  well  as  possible 
with  the  thought  of  the  day ;  but  her  one  aim 
was  to  have  her  husband  honored. 

John  Crawford  was  a  good  husband,  though 
not  always  considerate.     He    thought  nobody 
quite  so  good   and  helpful  as  Betsey,  nobody 
'4 


THE  SECOND    TIME.  15 

cooked  so  well,  nobody  was  more  saving,  and 
he  was  proud  to  rise  by  her  help.  He  failed 
sometimes  to  consider  how  large  a  matter  that 
help  had  been  in  his  life.  If  he  had  been  asked 
who  made  his  money  he  would  have  replied 
without  hesitation,  "  I  made  it."  That  Betsey 
was  entitled  to  half,  or  even  a  third,  would  never 
have  occurred  to  him.  He  provided  for  her 
and  the  children  all  they  seemed  to  need.  He 
was  the  head  of  the  family,  and  that  headship 
had  made  him  somewhat  selfish  and  domineer- 
ing. 

As  the  children  grew  older,  and  Mrs.  Craw- 
ford looked  out  into  the  future  and  realized  the 
possibility  of  leaving  the  world  before  her  hus- 
band, she  thought  much  of  their  condition  under 
a  changed  home.  Mr.  Crawford  would  marry 
again,  probably,  and  her  children  might  have 
little  or  none  of  the  property  which  they  to- 
gether had  struggled  to  earn. 

One  evening  she  said,  as  they  sat  before  the 
open  fire,  the  children  having  gone  to  bed : 
"  John,  it  seems  to  me  things  are  unequal  in 
the  world.  You  and  I  have  worked  hard,  and 
I  have  been  proud  to  have  you  succeed.  We 


1 6  THE  SECOND    TIME. 

both  love  the  children,  and  want  everything 
done  for  them.  What  if  I  should  die,  and  you 
should  marry  again  and  have  other  children?" 

"Why,  Betsey!  You  don't  think  I  could 
forget  our  own  precious  children?  No  second 
wife  could  or  would  influence  me  against  my 
children.  You  and  I  have  worked  together, 
and  I  should  feel  dishonorable  to  leave  them 
helpless  and  care  for  others.  You  must  think 
me  a  villain." 

"  Oh,  no,  John  !  But  I  have  seen  cases  like 
that.  Only  the  other  day  the  Rev.  Cornelius 
Jones  married  a  young  wife,  and  gave  her  all 
his  property,  leaving  nothing  to  his  three 
daughters.  Now,  if  a  minister  would  do  that, 
what  should  we  expect  of  others?" 

"  There  must  have  been  peculiar  circum- 
stances. He  could  not  have  been  in  his  right 
mind." 

"  You  know,  John,  if  you  were  to  die  I 
should  receive  a  third  of  what  I  have  helped 
you  earn,  and  the  rest  would  go  to  the 
children ;  while  if  I  were  to  die  nothing  would 
go  to  the  children.  I  should  like  to  have  at 
least  the  third  which  the  law  considers  mine 


THE  SECOND    TIME.  17 

go  to  them  at  my  death,  as  it  does  in  some 
countries  of  the  Old  World,  where  a  man 
cannot  marry  a  second  time  till  he  has  settled 
a  portion  on  his  first  children." 

"  But  that  would  be  a  great  inconvenience," 
replied  Mr.  Crawford.  "  A  man  has  money  in 
business,  and  to  take  out  a  third  if  his  wife  dies 
might  sadly  embarrass  him.  Or  even  the  use 
of  a  third,  set  apart  for  them,  might  cripple 
him." 

"  Better  that  there  be  a  little  inconvenience 
than  a  wrong  done  to  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Crawford.  "  The  husband  may  lose  every  cent 
of  what  the  wife  has  struggled  and  saved  all 
her  life  to  help  him  accumulate.  Marriage  is 
a  partnership,  and,  like  other  partnerships, 
must  suffer  some  change  and  inconvenience,  it 
may  be,  if  one  of  the  partners  dies.  There  must, 
necessarily,  be  a  new  adjustment  of  interests." 

"  But  the  law  allows  you  to  make  a  will  and 
give  away  your  property,  my  dear,  just  as  it 
does  me." 

"  Yes,  what  I  have  inherited  before  or  since 
my  marriage;  but  I  have  inherited  none,  and 
you  have  not.  We  have  made  ours  together, 


1 8  THE  SECOND    TIME. 

and  you  have  often  said  that  you  owe  as  much 
to  my  skill  and  economy  as  to  your  foresight 
and  ability." 

"  And  so  I  do,  it  is  true  ;  but  the  law  makes 
no  provision  about  our  common  property." 

"  But  make  it  yourself  then,  John,  if  the  law 
does  not.  Make  a  will  so  that  in  case  of  my 
death  my  two  daughters  shall  have  at  least  a 
third  of  all  you  are  worth  at  that  time,  or,  if 
you  prefer,  put  a  third  —  I  might  feel  that  it 
ought  to  be  half —  in  my  name,  or  perhaps 
the  home,  and  let  that  go  to  our  daughters." 

"  But  if  I  put  the  home  in  your  name,  so  that 
in  case  of  losses  something  would  be  saved 
from  creditors,  I  should  want  it  willed  back  to 
me  at  your  death,  so  that  I  could  still  have  a 
home  and  do  as  I  liked  with  it." 

"  And  then  nothing  would  go  to  the  children 
at  my  death?  That  is  not  fair,  John,  and  I 
have  worked  too  hard  and  long  to  be  willing." 

"  Well,  Betsey,  you  can  trust  me  to  do  the 
right  thing.  I  will  think  it  over,"  and  he  kissed 
her  as  they  closed  the  not  altogether  satisfac- 
tory conversation. 

As    was    to    be    expected,    Betsey    Crawford 


THE   SECOND    TIME.  19 

broke  down  from  the  wear  and  tear  of  life, 
and  died,  leaving  her  two  daughters  to  the  care 
of  a  fond  and  not  ungenerous  father  The  loss 
was  a  great  one  to  John  Crawford.  She  had 
been  his  competent  adviser,  with  tact  and  good 
sense  to  keep  matters  right.  She  had  guided 
more  than  he  ever  suspected.  He  mourned 
her  sincerely,  as  did  her  two  devoted  daugh- 
ters. 

He  was  lonely,  and  in  time  married  again,  a 
woman  considerably  younger  than  himself,  a 
member  of  the  same  church,  an  ambitious  and 
not  over-scrupulous  woman.  When  her  son 
was  born  she  became  desirous  that  every  advan- 
tage should  be  placed  before  him,  that  he  might 
attain  to  wealth  and  honor.  She  convinced 
Mr.  Crawford  in  a  thousand  nameless  ways 
that  the  boy  would  need  most  of  the  property 
for  business,  to  marry  well,  and  to  carry  down 
the  family  name.  The  girls  would  doubtless 
marry  and  be  well  provided  for  by  their  hus- 
bands. She  talked  with  Mr.  Crawford  about 
the  uncertainty  of  life,  and,  with  tact,  urged 
that  other  things  besides  a  spiritual  preparation 
for  death  were  necessary.  A  man  should  think 


2O  THE  SECOND    TIME. 

of   the    younger    members   of   his    family    who 
would  be  left  comparatively  helpless. 

People  said  that  the  strong-willed  John  Craw- 
ford had  become  very  much  under  the  sway  of 
his  younger  wife;  that  he  had  grown  less  domi- 
nant, more  appreciative,  and  more  thoughtful 
of  her  needs  and  wishes.  He  idolized  his  son, 
but  he  seemed  no  dearer  than  the  daughters  of 
Betsey.  He  was  a  more  expensive  child,  for  he 
needed  all  sorts  of  playthings,  the  best  school- 
ing, the  best  clothes,  and  a  somewhat  large 
amount  of  spending  money.  It  was  evident  that 
John  Crawford,  Jr.,  would  require  more  money 
than  his  half-sisters. 

In  course  of  time,  Mr.  Crawford,  having 
served  a  term  in  Congress  through  good  abil- 
ity and  the  discreet  use  of  money  in  organizing 
his  forces,  and  having  done  well  for  his  con- 
stituency, followed  Betsey  to  the  other  world. 
To  the  surprise  of  all  save  the  second  Mrs. 
Crawford  the  property  was  left  to  her  and  her 
son,  with  the  merest  remembrance  to  the 
unmarried  daughters  of  hard-working  Betsey 
Crawford. 

"  I  would  n't  have  thought  it,"  said  a  promi- 


THE  SECOND    TIME.  21 

nent  lady  in  the  church.  "  Why,  John  Crawford 
was  a  deacon,  and  professed  to  live  according 
to  right  and  justice !  There  must  have  been 
undue  influence.  His  first  wife  worked  like  a 
slave  to  help  earn  that  money.  I  never  sup- 
posed a  man  would  be  unfair  to  his  children." 

"  You  never  can  tell  what  folks  will  do,"  said 
another  church  member.  "  Youth  and  tact  are 
great  forces  in  the  world.  John  Crawford  never 
meant  to  be  unjust,  but  he  could  n't  help  it.  A 
third  of  that  property  ought  to  have  gone  to 
those  daughters.  Why  did  n't  his  wife  make 
him  fix  it  before  she  died?" 

"Maybe  she  tried,  who  knows?"  said  the 
person  addressed.  "  If  the  law  did  n't  make 
him  do  his  duty,  how  could  you  expect  his 
conscience  to  do  it?  We  need  some  new 
laws  about  the  property  which  men  and  women 
earn  together." 

Mr.  Crawford's  injustice  resulted  in  the  early 
death  of  one  daughter,  and  left  bitter  memories 
of  her  father  in  the  heart  of  the  other. 


FIFTEEN    THOUSAND    DOLLARS. 

JASON  and  Eunice  Kimball  had  always 
longed  for  money.  They  had  spent  their 
fifteen  years  of  married  life  on  a  New  England 
farm,  with  all  its  cares  and  hardships,  its  early 
rising,  long  hours  of  labor,  and  little  com- 
pensation. 

The  white  house,  with  its  green  blinds,  roof 
sloping  to  the  rear,  and  great  fir-trees  in  the 
front  yard,  had  grown  dingy  with  dust  and 
rain,  and  there  had  been  no  money  to  re- 
pair it. 

The  children,  Susie,  James,  and  little  Jason, 
fourteen,  twelve,  and  ten  years  old,  had  worked 
like  their  thrifty  parents,  gaining  the  somewhat 
meagre  schooling  of  a  half-deserted  New  Eng- 
land town. 

Now  a  great  change  had  come  to  the  Kim- 
ball  family.  A  relative  had  died  and  had  left 
to  Mrs.  Kimball  fifteen  thousand  dollars.  It 
seemed  an  enormous  amount  in  one  way,  but 
not  enormous  in  another.  The  children  must 

22 


FIFTEEN   THOUSAND  DOLLARS.  2$ 

be  better  dressed  and  prepared  for  college,  the 
father  must  give  up  the  slow  gains  of  the  farm 
and  go  into  business,  and  Mrs.  Kimball  must 
make  herself  ready  in  garb  and  manner  for  the 
new  life.  It  was  evident  that  they  must  move 
to  some  village  where  schools  were  good  and 
business  would  be  prosperous.  What  town 
and  what  business?  These  were  the  exciting 
topics  that  were  discussed  by  night  and  by  day. 
Jason  knew  how  to  till  the  soil,  to  harvest 
grain,  to  be  an  industrious  and  good  citizen 
and  a  kind  husband,  but  he  knew  little  about 
the  great  world  of  trade. 

"  I  might  buy  out  a  small  grocery,  Eunice," 
said  the  husband  one  evening.  "  People  must 
eat,  whether  they  have  decent  clothes  or  books 
or  schools." 

"  Ah,  if  you  once  looked  at  Mr.  Jones's 
books  and  saw  the  uncollectible  bills,  even 
from  so-called  '  good  families,'  you  would  not 
undertake  that  business  !  " 

"  I  might  buy  a  tract  of  land  in  a  growing 
town  and  sell  lots." 

"  But  what  if  a  panic  came,  and  you  lost 
all  ?  "  said  the  conservative  wife. 


24  FIFTEEN   THOUSAND  'DOLLARS. 

As  soon  as  it  became  known  that  the  Kim- 
balls  had  fallen  heir  to  fifteen  thousand  dollars, 
Mr.  Kimball  was  besought  on  all  sides  to  enter 
one  kind  of  business  or  another.  One  appli- 
cant had  invented  a  unique  coffee-pot,  which 
would  make  good  coffee  out  of  even  a  poor 
berry,  and  a  fortune  could  certainly  be  made, 
if  only  capital  were  provided.  Another  person 
had  a  new  style  of  wash-boiler,  and  experi- 
mented with  it  on  Mrs.  Kimball's  kitchen  stove, 
breaking  every  lid  in  the  operation.  Fortunes 
seemed  lying  about  at  every  corner  of  the 
street,  and  the  only  wonder  was  that  everybody 
did  not  get  rich.  Mr.  Kimball  was  besought 
to  take  out  life  insurance,  to  buy  acres  of  land 
in  the  far  West,  unseen  by  buyer  or  seller,  to 
give  to  every  charity  within  the  State,  where- 
ever  the  knowledge  of  the  fifteen-thousand- 
dollar  inheritance  had  permeated. 

Finally  the  town  for  a  home  was  decided 
upon,  and  the  business  —  that  of  selling  coal. 

A  pretty  house  was  purchased,  his  children 
placed  in  school,  a  seat  in  church  rented,  and  a 
shop  for  the  sale  of  hard  and  soft  coal. 

Mr.  Kimball  knew  nothing  of  the  coal  busi- 


FIFTEEN   THOUSAND   DOLLARS.  2$ 

ness ;  but  he  formed  a  partnership  with  a  man 
who  knew  everything  about  it  —  in  fact,  too 
much,  for  at  the  end  of  a  year  the  firm  failed, 
the  five  thousand  dollars  that  Mrs.  Kimball  gave 
to  her  husband  having  melted  away  like  snow 
in  spring. 

Mrs.  Kimball's  patience  had  not  increased 
with  her  gift  of  money.  She  blamed  her  hus- 
band for  losing,  blamed  herself  for  giving  the 
money  to  him,  blamed  the  world  in  general. 

Mr.  Kimball  tried  other  matters,  and  failed. 
It  was  difficult  to  find  a  situation  in  which  to 
work  for  others,  as  he  was  of  middle  age  and 
young  men  were  preferred.  He  tried  life  insur- 
ance, and  either  lacked  the  courage  to  visit 
people  in  season  and  out  of  season,  or  he  lacked 
volume  of  speech  or  multiplicity  of  argument. 

It  became  evident  to  the  neighbors  and  to 
the  minister  of  the  parish  that  matters  were 
going  wrong  in  the  Kimball  home.  The  hus- 
band wished  to  go  into  business  again ;  the 
wife  felt  sure  that  he  would  lose,  and  nothing 
would  be  left  for  the  children.  They  reasoned, 
they  quarrelled,  and  Mrs.  Kimball  became  ill 
from  anxiety. 


26  FIFTEEN   THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 

At  last  it  was  noised  about  that  a  separation 
might  come  in  the  divided  family.  Friends 
interposed,  but  nothing  satisfactory  was  accom- 
plished. The  few  thousands  that  remained  were 
safe  in  the  bank;  and  this  amount  Mrs.  Kimball 
had  decided  should  not  be  touched. 

One  morning  the  little  village  was  thrown  into 
consternation.  The  bank  had  lost  all  its  funds 
through  the  speculation  of  one  of  its  officers. 
Save  for  the  little  home,  the  Kimballs  were 
penniless. 

Sorrow  is  sometimes  a  great  strengthener. 
Mrs.  Kimball  rose  from  her  illness  to  face  the 
problems  of  life.  Both  parents  loved  their 
children,  and  they  were  too  young  to  be  thrown 
upon  the  world. 

"  Let  us  sell  our  home,"  said  Mrs.  Kimball, 
"  buy  back  the  old  farm,  and  live  together  till 
the  end." 

And  Jason  said,  "  Yes,  wife,  we  shall  be 
happier  in  the  old  place  without  the  fifteen 
thousand  dollars." 


THE   RING   OF   GOLD. 

ARTIN  DALY  had  become  discouraged. 
Like  many  another  miner  in  the  far 
West,  he  had  made  money  and  lost  it,  had 
prospected  for  mines,  found  ore,  and  been 
cheated  out  of  his  rights,  had  grown  poor  and 
ill,  and  had  thrown  himself  under  a  tree,  care- 
less whether  he  lived  or  died. 

The  great  snowy  mountain-peaks  and  the 
rich  verdure  had  lost  their  attraction  for  him. 
He  had  hoped  and  been  disappointed  so  many 
times  that  he  had  come  to  believe  himself  un- 
lucky; that  he  should  never  possess  a  dollar; 
that  there  was  neither  happiness  nor  home  for 
him. 

He  had  seen  more  prosperous  days.  His 
large  d|rk  eyes,  his  broad  brow,  his  well-shaped 
mouth  and  chin,  bespoke  refinement  in  the 
years  that  were  gone.  He  had  been  well  edu- 
cated, had  tried  many  things  and  failed  in  them, 
not  from  lack  of  energy  nor  from  lack  of  judg- 
ment, but  his  fate  seemed  to  be  an  adverse  one. 
27 


28  THE  RING    OF  GOLD. 

He  had  done  many  good  acts,  had  always 
helped  his  brother  miners,  had  tried  to  look  on 
the  bright  side  of  life,  had  fought  manfully,  and 
been  defeated  in  the  battle.  He  had  imagined 
sometimes  that  the  clouds  had  a  silver  lining, 
but  the  storms  always  came  sooner  or  later. 
He  meditated  thus  as  he  lay  under  the  tree, 
and  finally,  more  dead  than  alive  from  want  and 
exhaustion,  fell  asleep. 

Two  men  passed  along  under  the  brow  of 
the  mountain,  by  the  tree.  They  were  tall  and 
straight,  and  from  their  dark  hair  and  skin  it 
was  easy  to  perceive  their  Indian  blood. 

"  The  white  man  is  dead,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  as  he  bent  on  his  knee  beside  the  sleeper. 

"  No,  there  is  a  twitching  of  the  eyelids," 
said  the  other.  "  He  is  pale  and  sick.  I  will 
take  him  home,  and  Mimosa  will  care  for  him." 

The  conversation,  carried  on  in  a  low  tone, 
awakened  the  miner. 

"  Come  with  us,  and  you  shall  have  food  and 
shelter,"  said  the  friendly  Indian. 

Scarcely  able  to  bear  his  weight,  Martin 
leaned  upon  the  arms  of  the  two  men,  and  soon 
found  himself  in  the  humble  Indian  cabin. 


THE  RING    OF  GOLD,  29 

"  Mimosa,  here  is  a  stranger.  Take  care  of 
him.  Red  Cloud  never  left  a  human  being  to 
die.  He  will  get  well,  and  then  we  will  send 
him  back  to  his  people." 

A  shy,  pale  Indian  girl  came  forward  and  did 
as  she  was  bidden.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
looked  very  pityingly  out  of  her  fawn-like  dark 
eyes.  When  Martin  had  been  placed  in  the 
simple  bed  she  prepared  food  for  him,  and  fed 
him  as  though  he  were  a  child.  Day  by  day 
she  came  and  went,  speaking  little,  but  doing 
gently  the  things  which  only  a  woman's  hands 
can  do. 

After  a  time  the  miner,  still  a  young  man, 
gained  in  strength,  and  began  once  more  to 
hope  for  a  successful  future. 

"  Mimosa,"  he  said  one  day,  "  I  owe  my  life 
to  you,  and  if  I  am  ever  rich  I  will  come  back 
and  reward  you." 

"  I  shall  miss  you,"  said  the  girl  shyly.  "But 
I  want  no  money.  I  shall  be  happy  because 
you  are  well  again  and  happy." 

"  I  shall  yet  find  gold,  Mimosa.  I  used  to 
think  I  should  be  rich,  and  then  I  became  poor 
and  sick  and  lost  heart.  You  wear  a  ring  on 


30  THE  RING    OF  GOLD. 

your  finger  and  sometimes  a  chain  about  your 
neck,  both  of  beaten  gold.  Did  the  metal  come 
from  mines  near  here?  " 

"  My  father  gave  them  to  me,"  she  replied, 
and  nothing  more  could  be  learned  from  her 
on  the  subject. 

"Would  you  care,  Mimosa,  if  I  wore  the 
ring  until  I  went  away?  Perhaps  I  can  find 
the  place  where  the  gold  came  from." 

"  You  may  wear  it  till  you  come  back  rich," 
she  said,  smiling. 

Days  grew  into  weeks,  and  the  time  drew 
near  for  the  miner  to  say  good-by  to  the  girl 
who  had  become  his  comrade  as  well  as  de- 
liverer Tears  filled  her  eyes  as  they  parted. 
"  You  will  forget  Mimosa,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  will  bring  back  the  ring,  and  you 
shall  give  it  to  the  man  who  makes  you  his 
bride.  I  shall  never  forget  Red  Cloud  nor  his 
daughter." 

Strong  and  hopeful  again,  Martin  took  up 
life,  obtained  work,  and  believed  once  more 
that  he  should  find  gold. 

But  he  missed  the  Indian  girl.  The  pines  on 
the  snowy  mountain-peaks  whispered  of  her. 


THE  RING    OF  GOLD.  31 

The  evenings  seemed  longer  than  formerly ; 
the  conversation  of  the  miners  less  interesting. 
He  was  lonely.  He  was  earning  a  fair  living, 
but  of  what  use  was  money  to  him  if  he  was 
to  feel  desolate  in  heart  ?  Mimosa  was  not  of 
his  race,  but  she  had  a  lovable  nature.  He 
remembered  that  she  looked  sad  at  his  going 
away.  He  wondered  if  she  ever  thought  about 
him.  If  she  had  some  Indian  suitor,  would  she 
not  wish  for  the  ring  again?  He  would  like  at 
least  to  see  the  man  and  his  daughter  who  had 
saved  his  life.  He  would  carry  back  the  ring. 
Ah !  if  he  knew  where  the  gold  in  it  came 
from,  perhaps  he  would  indeed  become  rich, 
and  then  who  could  make  him  so  happy  as 
Mimosa? 

Months  only  increased  the  loneliness  in 
Martin's  heart.  He  was  becoming  discouraged 
again.  He  even  began  to  fear  that  Mimosa 
was  married,  and  his  soul  awakened  to  a  sense 
of  loss.  He  would  go  back  just  once  and  see 
her,  and  on  his  journey  back  he  would  sit  for  a 
half-hour  under  the  tree  where  Red  Cloud  had 
found  him. 

"  What    ails    Martin  ? "     said    one    miner    to 


32  THE  RING    OF  GOLD. 

another.  "  He  must  be  in  love  —  no  fun  in 
him  as  in  the  old  days.  Going  to  quit  camp, 
he  says." 

After  Martin  had  decided  to  go  to  see  Red 
Cloud  his  heart  seemed  lighter.  If  Mimosa 
were  married  he  could  at  least  show  her  his 
gratitude.  And  if  she  were  not?  Well,  it 
would  be  very  restful  to  see  her  once  more  ! 

He  started  on  his  journey.  The  full  moon 
was  rising  as  he  neared  the  old  tree  where  Red 
Cloud  had  found  him.  As  he  approached  he 
was  startled  by  a  white  figure.  He  turned  aside 
for  a  moment,  and  then  went  cautiously  up  to 
the  great  trunk.  Two  dark  eyes  full  of  tears 
gazed  up  into  his  eyes,  at  first  with  a  startled 
look  and  then  with  a  gleam  of  joy  and  trust. 

"  Mimosa !  "  he  exclaimed,  and  clasped  the 
Indian  girl  in  his  arms.  "  Why  are  you  here, 
child,  at  this  time  of  night  ?  " 

"  I  came  here  to  think  of  you,  Martin,  and 
the  moonlight  is  so  sweet  and  comforting.  The 
green  trees  and  the  mountains  tell  me  of  you." 

"  I  have  brought  you  back  the  ring,  Mimosa." 

"  And  are  you  rich  yet?  You  were  to  keep 
it  till  you  were  rich." 


THE  RING    OF  GOLD.  33 

"  No,  but  I  would  be  rich,  perhaps,  if  you 
would  tell  me  where  the  gold  in  the  ring  was 
found." 

"  My  father  gave  it  to  me,"  she  replied 
quietly. 

"  Mimosa,  would  you  love  me  if  I  were  rich?" 

"Perhaps  I  should  be  afraid  of  you  if  you 
were." 

"  Would  you  love  me  if  I  remained  poor  as  I 
am  now?  " 

"  Yes,  always." 

"  And  if  I  became  sick  and  could  not  care 
for  you,  what  then?  " 

"  /would  care  for  you,  Martin." 

"  I  have  brought  back  the  ring,  Mimosa,  that 
you  may  give  it  to  the  man  who  shall  make  you 
his  bride." 

"  And  would  you  like  to  keep  the  ring  your- 
self, Martin?" 

"  Yes,  dearest." 

They  went  back  to  the  home  of  Red  Cloud, 
happy  because  promised  to  each  other  in  mar- 
riage. 

After  a  quiet  wedding  Mimosa  said  one  day: 
"  Come  with  me,  Martin,  and  I  will  show  you 


34  THE  RING    OF  GOLD. 

where  the  gold  in  the  ring  and  the  necklace 
were  found." 

Not  very  far  from  the  tree  where  the  miner 
had  lain  down  discouraged  Mimosa  pointed  out 
the  shining  ore,  the  spot  known  only  to  the  few 
Indians. 

"  Mimosa,  there  is  a  mine  here !  This  gold 
is  the  outcropping  of  the  veins.  I  shall  yet  be 
rich,  my  darling." 

"  Would  you  surely  love  me  as  much,  Martin, 
if  you  were  rich?  " 

"  I  would  give  you  everything  your  heart 
desired." 

"  And  not  go  to  an  Eastern  country,  and  be 
great,  and  forget  Mimosa?" 

"  Never !  " 

With  a  happy  heart  Martin  Daly  took  his 
pick  to  the  mountains.  The  golden  ore  opened 
under  his  touch.  His  claim  each  day  showed 
more  value.  He  had,  indeed,  become  rich 
through  the  ring  of  Mimosa. 

Times  have  changed.  The  children  of  the 
Indian  girl,  educated,  gentle  as  their  mother 
and  energetic  as  their  father,  are  in  a  handsome 
house.  Love  in  the  home  has  kept  as  bright  as 
the  gold  in  the  mountain. 


FOUR  LETTERS. 

T^vEAR  ERNEST:  I  am  sitting  under  a 
*-•'  great  oak  this  summer  afternoon,  just  as 
the  sun  is  setting.  The  western  sky  is  crossed 
with  bands  of  brilliant  red  and  yellow,  while 
overhead,  and  to  the  east,  pink  fleecy  clouds 
are  floating  like  phantom  ships  of  coral.  The 
green  forest  of  beech  and  oak  at  my  right  mel- 
lows in  the  deepening  gray  of  the  twilight,  and 
the  white  mansion  at  my  left,  with  its  red  roof, 
looks  like  some  castle  in  a  story.  The  grand 
blue  lake  in  the  distance  seems  closer  to  me  in 
the  subdued  light,  and  I  almost  question  if  this 
be  a  picture  or  reality. 

How  I  wish  you  were  here  to  sit  beside  me, 
and  talk  as  we  used  to  do  in  college  days ! 
Then  we  wondered  where  each  would  be,  what 
experiences  would  fill  each  heart,  and  what  the 
future  had  for  us  in  its  shadowy  keeping. 

You  have  been  a  wanderer,  and  seen  much  of 
the  world.  I  have  had,  for  the  most  part,  a 
35 


36  FOUR   LETTERS. 

quiet  life  of  study,  have  finished  a  book,  have 
had  anxieties,  as  who  has  not,  but,  best  of  all,  I 
have  found  my  ideal. 

You  will  perhaps  smile  at  this,  and  recall  to 
me  my  love  of  athletic  sports,  my  disregard  of 
the  affections,  my  entire  ability  to  live  without 
the  gentler  sex.  Not  that  you  and  I  both  did 
not  admire  a  brilliant  eye,  or  a  rosy  lip,  or  a 
perfect  hand,  but  life  was  so  full  without  all 
this  that  we  looked  at  women  as  one  does  at 
rare  pictures — expensive  luxuries,  to  be  ad- 
mired rather  than  possessed. 

But  all  has  changed  with  me.  I  have  met 
one  who  will,  I  think,  fill  my  vision  for  life. 
She  is  not  strictly  beautiful.  Her  blue  eyes  are 
calm  and  clear.  Her  manner  is  not  responsive, 
and  she  would  seem  to  a  stranger  like  one  to 
be  worshipped  from  afar.  She  has  depth  of 
affection,  but  it  is  not  on  the  surface. 

Edith  Graham  is  to  most  persons  a  mystery. 
She  loves  nature,  sits  with  me  often  to  enjoy 
these  wonderful  sunsets,  makes  me  feel  that  I 
am  in  the  presence  of  a  goddess,  and  goes  her 
way,  while  I  continue  to  worship  her. 

Yes,  I  think  I  have  used  the  right  word  —  "  wor- 


FOUR   LETTERS.  37 

ship."  I  walk  a  thousand  times  past  the  house 
where  she  lives  because  she  is  there.  I  linger 
in  the  pathways  where  she  daily  walks,  with  the 
feeling  that  her  footsteps  have  given  them  a 
special  sacredness.  I  know  well  the  seat  in  the 
forest  near  here  where  she  comes  to  read  and 
look  upon  the  distant  lake.  Every  friend  of 
hers  is  nearer  to  me  because  her  friend.  The 
graves,  even,  of  her  dear  ones  are  precious  to 
me.  Every  tree  or  flower  she  has  admired  is 
fairer  to  me.  The  golden-rod  of  the  fields  I 
keep  ever  in  my  study  because  she  loves  and 
gathers  it.  I  have  planted  red  carnations  in 
my  garden  because  she  delights  to  wear  them. 
The  autumn  leaves  are  exquisite  to  me  because 
she  paints  them,  and  I  recall  the  sound  of  her 
feet  among  the  rustling  leaves  with  the  same 
joy  which  I  feel  in  remembering  the  music 
of  the  priests  of  Notre  Dame,  or  the  voices 
of  the  nuns  of  the  Sacre  Cceur  in  Rome,  at 
sunset. 

The  moon,  from  new  to  full,  has  an  added 
beauty  because  when  Edith  and  I  are  sepa- 
rated she  speaks  to  us  both  the  eternal  lan- 
guage of  love.  When  I  watch  the  clouds  break 


38  FOUR  LETTERS. 

over  her  majestic  face  I  know  that  Edith  too 
enjoys  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

The  song  of  the  robins  among  our  trees  is 
sweeter  because  Edith  hears  it.  The  little 
stream  that  wanders  near  us  and  glides  over 
the  stones  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  a  white 
sheet  of  spray  is  a  bond  between  us,  for  we 
have  both  looked  upon  it.  Edith's  name 
seems  as  musical  to  me  as  the  waterfall.  I  can 
fancy  that  it  is  graven  upon  my  heart. 

I  know  every  change  of  her  features, —  she  is 
almost  always  quiet,  —  and  her  every  word  and 
act  I  have  gone  over  and  over  in  my  mind  ten 
thousand  times.  We  have  read  together,  and 
I  hope  she  loves  me.  This  companionship  is 
so  blessed  that  I  dread  to  speak  to  her  of  love 
—  though  my  face  must  always  tell  it  —  lest, 
possibly,  the  dream  be  dispelled,  and  I  wake 
to  the  dreadful  knowledge  that  she  cannot  be 
mine. 

Do  you  know  all  these  feelings,  Ernest? 
Whatever  you  may  think  of  me,  I  have  grown 
a  nobler  man  through  them.  All  womanhood 
is  more  sacred  to  me.  I  can  do  work  I  never 
thought  myself  capable  of  before.  It  would 


FOUR  LETTERS.  39 

be  a  pleasure  to  work  for  Edith  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  am  going  to  Europe  soon,  and  I  must 
settle  this  matter.  I  will  write  you  then. 

Yours, 

JOHN. 

DEAR  ERNEST:  The  scene  has  changed 
since  I  wrote  you  months  ago.  I  am  at  the 
foot  of  the  Jungfrau,  whose  snowy  top,  gilded 
by  the  sun,  is  ever  a  thing  of  beauty. 

The  day  I  dreaded  has  come  and  gone.  I 
have  told  Edith  all  my  heart,  and,  alas !  she  is 
not  mine.  She  was  already  half  plighted  to 
a  young  naval  officer,  whom  she  met  when  she 
was  away  at  school.  I  believe  she  was  fond  of 
me,  for  our  tastes  are  similar,  but  she  has  been 
the  true  woman  through  it  all. 

I  blame  her?  Never!  I  would  not  allow  my 
heart  to  cherish  such  a  thought  for  a  moment. 

Do  I  love  her  less?  No.  Shall  I  think  a 
flower  less  beautiful  and  fragrant  because  an- 
other owns  it  and  enjoys  it?  Edith  will  be  to 
me  ever  the  same  lovely  picture  of  youthful 
womanhood  —  the  same  blessing,  though  to  me 
unattainable.  Do  not  imagine  that  I  shall  for- 


4O  FOUR  LETTERS. 

get  her.  A  man  loves  as  deeply  as  a  woman, 
often  more  deeply,  and  not  seldom  remembers 
as  long  as  she  does.  Other  faces  may  interest 
me;  other  women  be  companionable;  but  they 
will  not  be  Edith. 

I  shall  go  back  to  our  old  home  beside  the 
lake,  because  she  will  sometime  come  there, 
and  it  will  always  be  a  comfort  and  pleasure 
to  see  her,  even  if  she  does  not  see  me.  Per- 
haps it  is  a  foolish  wish,  but  I  shall  hope  some- 
time to  rest  in  the  same  cemetery  where  she 
rests. 

I  love  to  think  of  her  the  last  thing  as  I 
sleep,  for  then  ofttimes  in  my  dreams  she  talks 
and  walks  with  me,  and  I  awake  refreshed  by 
the  memory. 

Some  one  has  said,  "  Happiness  is  not  pos- 
session. It  is  giving  and  growing ;  "  and  I 
know  that  I  am  growing  more  fit  for  her 
companionship,  even  though  it  come  only  in 
another  life. 

The  seas  she  sails  upon,  the  harbors  she 
enters,  will  all  be  nearer  and  dearer  to  me. 
The  world  will  grow  larger  instead  of  smaller  to 
my  vision.  I  shall  be  lonely;  yes,  almost 


FOUR  LETTERS.  41 

unbearably  lonely.  But,  after  all,  what  a  bless- 
ing to  have  known  her  —  to  have  loved  her  —  to 
have  offered  her  the  best  thing  a  man  can  offer 
a  woman,  the  consecration  of  his  life  to  her ! 
What  if  I  had  gone  through  these  years  and 
not  have  seen  such  an  ideal?  How  poor  would 
be  my  heart !  Now  I  can  say  with  Shelley, 
"Love's  very  pain  is  sweet." 

Of  course  I  can  but  think  of  what  I  have 
missed.  To  have  seen  her  in  a  pleasant  home 
and  to  come  to  her  after  the  day's  work  was 
done  would  have  been  bliss  indeed.  To  have 
seen  the  sun  set  and  the  moon  rise ;  to  have 
walked  over  the  hills  and  meadows  together ;  to 
have  read  by  our  open  fire;  to  have  laughed 
and  wept  and  prayed  and  grown  gray-haired 
together  —  all  this  would  have  made  life  com- 
plete. Even  silence  together  would  have  made 
earth  seem  heaven. 

Life  is  indeed  a  mystery.  It  brings  us  devel- 
opment, if  not  happiness.  For  a  time  after  I 
left  home  I  seemed  unable  to  put  myself  to  any 
labor,  but  I  have  come  to  be  grateful  that  for 
me  there  is  so  beautiful  an  ideal — one  that 
sheds  a  halo  about  even  the  saddest  day.  But 


42  FOUR  LETTERS. 

there  come  times  of  anguish,  when  I  long  to 
hold  Edith's  hand  in  mine ;  to  press  her  to  my 
heart  with  all  the  rapture  of  a  perfect  love. 
Then  I  go  out  under  the  blue  sky  and  walk, 
if  I  can,  always  towards  the  sunset,  getting  out 
of  the  rich  color  all  the  balm  possible  for  an 
unsatisfied  soul. 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  she  realizes  how  I 
worship  her — if  she  knows  all  the  bliss  of  lov- 
ing, and  the  eternal  sorrow  of  losing.  Ah  !  I 
know  it  all. 

Yours  always, 

JOHN. 


DEAR  ERNEST:  How  the  years  have  come 
and  gone  since  I  wrote  you  from  Switzerland  ! 
I  have  just  seen  Edith  home  from  a  voyage  to 
Japan.  And  she  has  brought  her  little  girl  of 
three,  with  her  own  blue  eyes  and  the  same 
reserved,  quiet  ways.  The  child  came  across 
the  hill  with  her  nurse  to  our  grove,  and  I 
made  friends  with  her  and  held  her  on  my  knee 
and  kissed  her.  She  could  not  know  how  very 
dear  she  is  to  me,  and  why.  She  could  not 
guess  that  the  golden  hair  which  I  fondled  took 


FOUR   LETTERS.  43 

me  back  to  other  days,  and  quickened  the  flow 
of  blood  in  my  veins.  Her  smooth,  fair  skin  is 
like  her  mother's.  I  could  not  help  wishing 
that  she  might  stay  with  me  forever,  and  look 
out  upon  the  lake  and  the  sunsets. 

It  will  be  a  dreadful  wrench  to  my  heart 
when  they  go  back.  Japan  is  so  far  away. 
Edith  looks  paler  than  formerly,  and  smiles 
less  frequently.  I  have  heard  it  hinted  that 
she  is  not  happy.  Can  it  be  possible  that  her 
husband  does  not  appreciate  the  treasure  which 
he  has  won  ? 

If  I  could  only  speak  a  word  of  comfort  to 
her  —  but  that  cannot  be.  She  is  very  pleasant, 
but  calm,  with  me,  and  seems  glad  to  have  me 
love  her  little  daughter.  I  thought  I  saw  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  we  sat  with  the  child  between  us 
under  the  oak  last  night  at  sunset,  but  she  rose 
hastily,  and  said  she  should  take  cold  in  the 
falling  dew. 

She  is  more  beautiful  to  me  than  when  a  girl. 
Her  face  has  more  of  thought  and  feeling  in 
it,  and  a  trace  of  suffering  as  well,  and  that 
heightens  her  beauty  to  me,  and  to  men  gener- 
ally, I  think.  We  love  to  care  for  others, 


44  FOUR  LETTERS. 

especially  if  they  need  our  care,  if  there  is  any 
manhood  in  us. 

Ah,  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  interesting 
as  a  woman,  with  her  tenderness,  her  solicitude 
for  our  welfare,  her  quiet  reserve,  her  gentle 
listening,  her  brightness,  her  nobleness,  her 
grace  ! 

After  Edith  left  me,  taking  her  little  girl  by 
the  hand,  I  confess  I  was  desolate,  overwhelm- 
ingly desolate.  Why  is  it  that  one  person  can 
make  night  seem  day  to  us ;  can  bring  perfect 
rest  and  content?  I  should  not  have  cared  if 
years  could  have  passed  while  we  sat  there  to- 
gether. She  will  go  away  soon,  and  I  shall 
have  to  fight  the  old  battle  with  self  over  again, 
and  conquer,  and  go  back  to  daily  duties. 

Come  and  see  me  here  at  this  lovely  outlook. 
I  will  show  you  her  child's  picture — so  like 
the  mother.  What  will  the  end  be?  I  suppose 
you  ask.  The  same  as  now,  probably.  I  do 
not  look  for  anything  different.  I  try  to  be 
happy  and  thankful  that  I  live  in  the  same 
world  and  now  and  then  in  the  same  city  with 

Edith. 

Faithfully, 

JOHN. 


FOUR  LETTERS.  45 

DEAR  ERNEST  :  You  and  I  are  growing  older, 
but  we  have  kept  the  same  true  friendship 
through  all  the  years.  Your  life  has  been  full 
of  love  and  sunshine,  and  mine  so  desolate, 
except  for  one  ennobling  affection. 

But  a  great  change  has  come  into  my  life. 
Edith  has  come  back  with  her  daughter,  and 
both  are  in  mourning.  They  have  been  here 
for  months,  but  I  have  seen  little  of  them. 

A  few  evenings  ago  I  sat  with  them  among 
the  trees  surrounding  their  lovely  home,  and 
as  I  left  I  dared  to  tell  Edith  that  I  had  not 
buried  all  hope  for  the  future.  She  looked  at 
me  gravely,  I  thought  with  an  appealing  ex- 
pression in  her  blue  eyes,  as  though  she  longed 
for  a  place  where  her  heart  might  rest.  You 
know  how  the  eyes  can  speak  volumes.  I  had 
never  seen  her  look  thus  before.  Every  woman 
loves  to  be  worshipped.  "  She  must  at  least 
be  gratified  that  I  love  her,"  I  said  to  myself. 

I  have  been  to  see  Edith  this  evening  at  sun- 
set. She  and  I  have  walked  in  the  ravines, 
and  I  have  pushed  away  the  underbrush  from 
her  lovely  head,  and  told  her  that  I  longed  to 


46  FOUR  LETTERS. 

care  for  her  always,  and  she  has  laid  her  white 
hand  on  my  arm  and  said,  "  I  love  you." 

I  scarcely  know  what  I  am  writing.  To 
have  her  and  her  child  in  my  home  forever ! 
To  have  the  peace  and  satisfaction  and  rest  of 
a  reciprocal  affection  !  To  have  her  mine  to 
kiss  and  be  proud  of,  and  to  live  for !  To 
gather  golden-rod  and  carnations  for  her  as 
when  she  was  a  girl !  To  see  the  curling  smoke 
of  ships  on  the  blue  lake,  and  the  golden  sun- 
sets, and  the  rich  autumn  coloring  together,  and 
to  know  that  we  shall  live  side  by  side  till  death 
parts  us,  and  then  shall  rest  together  under  the 
same  myrtles  and  red  berries  of  the  mountain 
ash  in  the  cemetery  ! 

Life  has  begun  anew.  I  seem  almost  a  boy 
again,  while  Edith  is  sweet  and  grave  and 
happy.  I  sometimes  half  fear  that  it  is  a 
dream,  it  is  all  so  beautiful.  The  world  never 
seemed  half  so  attractive  as  now.  Come  and 

see  us  in  our  home. 

Ever  yours, 

JOHN. 


REWARDED. 

'T~~*HE  snow  was  falling  on  Christmas  eve  in 
*-  the  little  village  of  West  Beverly.  A 
good  many  young  people  were  disappointed  as 
they  watched  the  feathery  crystals  come  float- 
ing down  from  a  sky  that  seemed  full  of  snow- 
banks. They  wished  to  go  to  a  party,  or 
concert,  or  home  gathering,  and  who  could  tell 
whether  Christmas  would  be  stormy  and  dis- 
agreeable? 

Widow  Wadsworth  sat  in  her  plain  home 
with  her  four  children,  whose  faces  were 
pressed  against  the  window  pane,  guessing 
what  the  coming  day  would  bring.  Not 
presents,  no ;  the  Wadsworths  were  too  poor 
for  those.  But  if  the  day  were  sunny  the 
sleigh  bells  would  ring,  and  the  poor  could 
slide  and  make  merry  as  well  as  the  rich. 

Hugh,  a  bright  boy  of  sixteen,  had  finished 

his  education.     By  hard  work  his  mother  had 

helped  him  through  the  High  School,  and  now 

he  was   ready  to  do    his    part  in   the  world's 

47 


48  RE  WARDED. 

work.  Not  that  he  did  not  long  for  college. 
Other  boys  had  gone  out  from  West  Beverly 
across  the  hills  to  Amherst  and  to  Harvard, 
but  they  had  fathers  to  assist  them,  or  kind 
friends  who  had  furnished  the  money.  Hugh 
must  now  aid  in  the  support  of  his  two  sisters 
and  little  brother. 

He  had  earned  something  by  working  Satur- 
days, so  that  when  Christmas  morning  dawned 
Kate  Wadsworth  found  some  plaid  for  a  new 
dress  outside  her  door,  Jenny  a  doll,  and  Willie 
a  sled. 

Mrs.  Wadsworth's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
she  kissed  Hugh.  "  It  will  all  come  right  in 
the  end,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  you  could  go  to 
college,  but  many  a  man  succeeds  without  it, 
and  educates  himself.  It  is  blessed  that  we  are 
alive  and  well,  and  are  able  to  work.  There  is 
as  much  room  in  the  world  for  my  children  as 
for  anybody's.  You  have  been  a  noble  son, 
and  we  all  love  you.  I  wanted  to  buy  you 
something,  but  the  money  had  to  go  for  rent." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  mother !  I  don't  need 
anything.  I'm  going  over  to  Mr.  Carter's  to 
see  if  they  want  the  snow  shovelled  from  their 


RE  WARDED.  49 

walks.  Tell  Willie  to  come  over  with  his  new 
sled  and  see  me  work."  And  Hugh's  big  blue 
eyes  brightened  as  he  stepped  out  into  the 
frosty  air.  Blessed  hope  of  youth,  that  carries 
us  into  the  realities  of  middle  life  stronger  and 
happier  for  the  burdens  that  must  be  borne ! 

The  Carter  mansion  away  on  the  hills  be- 
longed to  the  Hon.  William  Carter,  owner  of 
the  woollen  mills.  A  man  of  kind  heart,  good 
to  his  employees,  he  had  always  felt  an  interest 
in  Hush  because  the  father  had  worked  in  his 

o 

mills.  This  Christmas  morning  the  Carters 
wished  several  walks  cleared.  The  hired  man 
could  have  done  it,  but  Mr.  Carter  preferred 
that  Hugh  should  have  the  work. 

The  owner  of  the  woollen  mills  watched  the 
boy  from  the  window  as  he  shovelled.  "  A 
very  promising  lad,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  a  little 
lady  much  younger  than  himself.  "  I  wonder 
what  he  intends  to  do  in  the  world,"  and  put- 
ting his  hands  in  his  pockets  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  floor.  "  Jerome  Wadsworth  was  a 
good  workman  in  the  mills.  I  guess  the  widow 
has  had  a  hard  time  of  it  since  he  died." 

Mr.  Carter  walked  towards  the  dining-room, 


5O  REWARDED. 

where  the  breakfast  dishes  were  being  removed 
from  the  table. 

"  Margaret,  when  the  boy  has  finished  clear- 
ing the  walks,  send  him  to  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  responded  the  maid. 

An  hour  later,  his  cheeks  aglow  from  labor, 
Hugh  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  Come  in,  Hugh,  and  sit  down.  What  are 
you  going  to  do? " 

"  I  am  ready  for  any  honest  work,  Mr.  Car- 
ter. I  wanted  to  go  to  college,  but  that  is  out 
of  the  question." 

"  How  much  would  it  cost  you?" 

"  From  five  to  six  hundred  dollars  a  year,  I 
suppose." 

"  Would  your  mother  like  to  have  you  go?  " 

"Very  much  indeed.  She  has  always 
wanted  it,  but  I  think  she  really  needs  my 
wages  now  to  help  her." 

"  But  you  can  help  her  better  after  you  have 
an  education.  You  could  earn  more,  and  you 
would  be  an  honor  to  her." 

"  Yes,  I  know  of  nothing  that  would  make 
her  so  happy." 

"  Well,  my  son  is  young  yet,  and  something 


REWARDED.  51 

may  happen  which  will  prevent  my  sending 
James  to  college,  so  I  will  send  you  while  I 
can." 

Hugh's  blue  eyes  grew  moist.  He  was  in- 
deed to  have  a  Christmas  present:  a  four 
years'  course  at  college. 

"  I  will  come  over  and  talk  with  your  mother 
about  it,"  said  Mr.  Carter. 

Hugh  hurried  home,  and  entered  the  cottage 
quite  out  of  breath.  Calling  his  mother  aside, 
he  whispered,  "  Mother,  I  have  a  secret  to  tell 
you.  Mr.  Carter  is  going  to  send  me  to  col- 
lege, and  then  I  can  better  help  you  and  the 
rest.  Just  think  of  it  —  to  have  it  happen  on 
Christmas  Day !  And  I  never  expected  it." 

Mrs.  Wadsworth  could  not  speak  as  she 
folded  her  boy  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him. 
What  did  it  matter  to  her  self-sacrificing  heart 
whether  she  worked  early  and  late,  if  Hugh 
could  only  be  educated  !  True,  he  would  no 
longer  share  her  humble  cottage,  and  she 
would  miss  his  help  and  companionship,  but  her 
life  was  nothing — his  was  all.  If  anything  in 
humanity  touches  divinity,  it  is  motherhood,  that 
loves  and  sacrifices  without  hope  of  reward. 


52  REWARDED. 

Busy  days  followed,  when  the  little  trunk  was 
packed,  prayers  offered,  the  good-bys  said,  and 
her  boy  Hugh  went  out  into  the  world. 

Four  years  passed  —  four  years  with  their 
new  friendships,  eager  plans,  broader  outlook, 
and  development  of  character. 

Meantime  Widow  Wadsworth  struggled  on, 
Mr.  Carter  helping  the  family  somewhat,  so 
that  the  sisters  eventually  could  fit  themselves 
for  teaching.  When  college  days  were  over 
another  time  of  anxiety  came.  Should  Hugh 
have  a  profession  or  go  into  business?  He 
loved  books,  and  finally,  after  much  considera- 
tion, he  decided  to  enter  the  law,  working  his 
way  as  best  he  could  by  teaching  and  writing. 
Steadily  he  won  success,  and  before  thirty  was 
on  the  road  to  fame  and  fortune. 

The  years  had  whitened  Widow  Wadsworth's 
hair.  All  her  family  were  now  earning,  and 
life  had  become  easier.  The  years,  too,  had 
brought  changes  in  the  Carter  family.  The 
woollen  mills  had  failed  to  bring  money  to  their 
owner,  and  the  large  home  had  passed  into 
other  hands.  Pretty  Isabel  Carter,  whom  it 
was  whispered  Hugh  had  desired  to  marry,  had 


REWARDED.  53 

thrown  herself  away  on  a  showy  youth,  who 
married  her  with  the  expectation  of  securing  a 
fortune.  James  Carter,  the  only  son,  was  work- 
ing his  way  through  college. 

As  is  often  the  case,  a  woman  was  longing 
and  praying  for  James's  success.  Jenny  Wads- 
worth  was  teaching  a  village  school.  She  and 
James  Carter  had  been  friends.  She  knew  his 
many  good  qualities,  and  whether  he  ever  cared 
for  her  or  not  she  determined  that  his  father's 
failure  should  not  spoil  his  life  if  she  could  help 
it.  Kate  could  assist  the  family,  and  unbe- 
known to  any  one  Jenny  was  saving  money  for 
James  Carter's  education.  One  morning  a 
letter  was  sent  to  Hugh,  saying:  "  James  Carter 
is  trying  to  work  his  way  through  college,  and 
we  must  help  him.  Here  is  one  hundred  dol- 
lars which  I  have  saved,  and  I  will  send  more 
soon.  Do  not  tell  anybody  living,  but  use  it 
for  him.  Mr.  Carter  helped  you,  and  I  know 
you  will  be  only  too  glad  to  help  James.  I  see 
him  rarely,  but  he  is  a  noble  fellow,  and  I  long 
to  have  him  succeed.  In  a  little  while  he  can 
be  in  the  office  with  you.  Your  loving  sister, 
Jenny." 


54  REWARDED. 

Hugh  smiled  as  he  read  the  letter,  and 
blessed  woman  for  her  sweet  self-sacrifice ; 
but  a  shadow  came  over  his  face  in  a  moment. 
Perhaps  he  thought  of  Isabel,  and  of  his  own 
disappointment. 

A  letter  was  sent  to  James  the  next  morning 
with  a  check  from  Hugh  and  a  hundred  dollars 
from  "a  friend."  "  Come  to  me,"  wrote  Hugh, 
"  as  soon  as  you  are  through  college,  and  let 
me  help  to  repay  a  little  of  the  debt  I  shall 
always  owe  your  father." 

When  his  course  was  finished  James  Carter, 
manly  in  physique  and  refined  in  face,  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  a  New  York  office.  He  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  Hugh,  who  had  not  seen 
him  for  years. 

"  The  debt  is  more  than  paid  to  my  father," 
said  James.  "  I  have  had  your  example  always 
before  me  to  surmount  obstacles  and  make  a 
man  of  myself,  and  now  in  turn  I  hope  to  help 
you  by  faithful  labor.  I  have  been  curious  to 
learn  of  the  '  friend  '  who  has  sent  me  money. 
I  have  thought  over  all  my  father's  acquaint- 
ances and  cannot  decide  who  it  can  be." 

"  Oh,    never    mind,    James ;    you   will    learn 


REWARDED.  55 

sometime  perhaps,  and  it  is  of  no  consequence 
if  you  do  not !  The  act  of  giving  is  what 
broadens  hearts,  whether  the  giver  ever  be 
known  or  not.  I  promised  to  keep  it  a  secret." 

The  two  young  men  went  to  live  in  quiet 
bachelor  quarters  together.  Work,  earnest  and 
absorbing,  filled  the  days  and  often  the  evenings. 

"  I  have  asked  mother  and  Jenny  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  us,"  said  Hugh  one  evening. 
"Jenny  teaches  in  a  town  not  far  from  here, 
and  my  good  mother  has  been  visiting  her,  and 
will  stay  here  a  little  on  her  way  to  West 
Beverly." 

"  That  will  do  us  good.  I  have  had  so  little 
time  to  see  ladies  that  it  will  seem  quite  a  home 
touch  to  our  bachelor  life,"  responded  James. 

Mrs.  Wadsworth  and  her  daughter  came,  and 
a  week  passed  happily.  Jenny  was  intelligent 
and  charming  —  how  could  she  be  other  than 
lovely  with  such  a  mother?  The  four  walked 
in  the  evenings,  Jenny  seeming  naturally  to  be 
left  in  the  care  of  James,  while  Hugh  delighted 
in  showing  attention  to  his  mother.  When 
mother  and  daughter  had  gone  home  the  quiet 
room  seemed  desolate.  Hugh  missed  them, 


56  REWARDED. 

but  James  was  absolutely  homesick.  New 
York,  great  and  fascinating,  had  lost  its  attrac- 
tion. With  the  departure  of  one  face  the  sun 
seemed  to  fade  out  of  the  sky. 

"  You  seem  sad,  James,"  said  Hugh,  as  they 
sat  together  one  evening,  —  he  wondered  if 
Jenny's  visit  did  not  have  something  to  do  with 
it,  —  "  and  perhaps  you  better  take  a  few  days' 
vacation  and  go  home." 

"  I  am  restless  and  unhappy ;  I  scarcely 
know  why.  I  think  a  change  would  do  me 
good." 

James  started  the  next  day  for  West  Beverly, 
but  easily  persuaded  himself  that  a  call  on 
Jenny  Wadsworth  at  the  place  where  she  was 
teaching,  if  only  for  a  few  hours,  would  make 
the  journey  pleasanter.  As  he  surmised,  he 
felt  lighter-hearted  after  his  visit  with  her, 
especially  as  he  obtained  from  her  a  promise 
that  she  would  correspond  with  him. 

Mrs.  Carter,  who  idolized  her  son,  was  made 
very  happy  by  his  coming.  When  he  returned 
to  the  city,  work  seemed  less  irksome,  letters 
grew  singularly  interesting  and  comforting,  till 
one  day  James  said: 


REWARDED.  57 

"  Hugh,  there  's  no  use  in  trying  to  hide  from 
you  the  fact  that  I  love  your  sister  Jenny,  and 
wish  to  marry  her  as  soon  as  I  can  support 
her." 

"  She  loved  you  long  ago,  James,  but  I 
was  not  allowed  to  tell  you  of  it.  Are  you 
engaged?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  you  "ve  found  out  who  the  '  friend  '  is, 
then?" 

James  Carter  turned  pale. 

"You  don't  mean  that  Jenny  earned  money 
to  help  take  me  through  college?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  will  pay  her  back  compound  interest, 
the  noble  girl." 

Years  have  passed.  Hugh,  now  very  wealthy, 
has  never  married,  but  finds  a  happy  home  with 
James  and  Jenny  Carter  and  their  little  son 
Hugh.  The  Hon.  William  Carter  learned  that 
it  pays  a  thousand-fold  to  help  a  boy  on  in  the 
world,  and  Jenny  rejoices  that  she,  too,  helped 
a  young  man  to  success. 


THE   UNOPENED    LETTER. 

r  I  "HERE  was  a  carriage  waiting  at  the  door, 
•*-  and  the  servant  had  just  announced  to 
Miss  Hamilton  that  a  gentleman  had  called  to 
see  her. 

"  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment,"  answered  a 
cheery,  blue-eyed  girl,  as  she  slipped  an  un- 
opened letter  into  her  pocket.  She  had  recog- 
nized the  handwriting  as  the  postman  handed  it 
to  her.  The  letter  was  from  a  young  college 
senior  in  the  quiet  New  England  town,  at  home 
for  his  summer  vacation,  —  Arthur  Ellsworth, 
a  manly  fellow,  whom  she  had  known  and 
admired  from  childhood.  And  now  Arthur's 
brother,  Elmer  Ellsworth,  was  waiting  to  take 
her  for  a  drive.  The  latter  was  the  handsomer 
of  the  two  possibly,  with  his  fine  form  and  dark 
eyes.  He,  also,  was  in  the  last  year  of  college 
life. 

After  pleasant  greetings  the  young  people 
started,  in  the  bright  September  morning,  for 
the  proposed  ride.  Who  that  has  driven 
58 


THE    UNOPENED   LETTER.  59 

through  Lexington  and  Woburn,  past  Mystic 
pond,  will  ever  forget  the  quiet  country  roads, 
the  historic  associations,  the  variety  of  wooded 
hills  and  pretty  valleys?  Now  the  two  school- 
friends  talked  of  the  present  with  its  joy  and 
the  future  with  its  hopes,  of  the  books  they  had 
studied  and  the  plans  they  had  made.  Now 
they  gathered  golden-rod,  and  listened  to  the 
song  of  the  birds  in  the  bracing  air.  It  was  a 
fitting  time  to  say  what  had  long  been  in 
Elmer's  heart — that  sometime,  when  his  pro- 
fession had  been  entered  upon,  she  would  be 
the  woman  whom  he  wished  to  make  his  wife. 

It  was  a  hard  matter  for  her  to  decide.  Both 
brothers  had  been  dear  to  her,  perhaps  Arthur 
especially,  —  and  both  were  noble  and  worthy. 
Arthur  had  never  spoken  to  her  of  marriage; 
and  now  Elmer  had  told  her  his  love,  and  that 
she  could  make  him  happy.  Had  Arthur 
spoken  first,  perhaps  her  heart  would  have 
more  warmly  responded ;  but  in  the  beauty  of 
that  autumn  morning,  with  the  hopeful,  earnest 
young  man  by  her  side,  she  gave  her  promise 
to  be  his  wife. 

As  soon  as  she  reached   her  home   she  ran 


6O  THE    UNOPENED  LETTER. 

upstairs,  hastily  threw  off  her  wraps,  and 
remembered  the  letter  from  Arthur,  in  her 
pocket.  Opening  it,  she  read : 

"  How  many  times  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you 
that  I  loved  you  !  How  often  have  the  words 
died  on  my  lips !  But  now,  before  I  go  back 
to  college,  I  must  ask  you  if  you  can  return 
that  love,  and  sometime  be  mine." 

Alas,  that  she  had  not  opened  the  letter 
sooner !  She  could  not  tell  Arthur  that  she 
had  preferred  him  to  Elmer;  that  were  dis- 
loyalty to  the  man  whom  she  had  promised  to 
wed.  She  could  only  say  that  she  was  already 
betrothed  to  his  brother.  She  married  him 
whom  she  had  promised.  Both  men  became 
prominent  in  the  history  of  New  England  — 
this  little  story  is  true.  One  went  through  life 
unmarried.  His  letter  was  opened  too  late. 


THREE   COLLEGE    STUDENTS. 

\  "^  7HAT  'S  the  work  for  vacation,  boys?" 

*  *  The  speaker  was  a  tall,  dark-haired, 
open-faced  young  man,  who  sat  with  his  two 
companions  on  the  sloping  ground  of  Amherst 
College,  looking  away  to  silent  Mount  Tom 
and  the  fertile  meadows  of  the  Connecticut- 
river  valley. 

"  It 's  something  downright  earnest  for  me," 
said  James  Wellman,  a  broad-shouldered,  big- 
hearted  youth  from  the  neighboring  county, 
who  in  spite  of  poverty  and  many  obstacles 
had  fought  his  way  by  the  hardest  work. 
"  I  'm  in  debt  for  board,  books  unpaid  for;  but 
I  've  seen  worse  times  than  these.  I  'm  used  to 
standing  alone,  so  I  'm  ready  for  the  battle.  I 
shall  take  an  agency  —  books,  or  maybe  clothes- 
wringers,  to  sell." 

"  That  will  be  fun,  I  '11  warrant,"  said  the  first 
speaker,  Grant  Reynolds,  whose  father,  a  rich 

manufacturer,  had  spared  no  pains  to  make  his 
61 


62  THREE    COLLEGE  STUDENTS. 

son's  life  a  bed  of  roses,  altogether  different 
from  what  his  own  had  been. 

"  Not  much  fun,"  said  James.  "  You  would  n't 
like  contemptuous  looks  from  women  who  know 
less  than  you,  and  whose  hearts  had  become 
hardened  because  their  husbands,  once  poor, 
very  likely,  had  become  the  possessors  of  houses 
on.aristocratic  streets.  Why,  a  woman  —  I  will 
not  call  her  a  lady  —  whose  husband  used  to  be 
a  stable  boy,  but  who  has  become  a  rich  gov- 
ernment official,  ordered  me  out  of  the  house 
when  I  was  selling  chromos.  She  said  '  agents 
were  tramps  and  a  nuisance ;  '  and  when  I  ex- 
plained that  I  was  working  my  way  through 
college,  she  answered,  remembering  the  former 
occupation  of  her  lord,  perhaps,  '  Be  some- 
body's coachman,  then,  and  earn  an  honorable 
living.'  I  wanted  to  add,  '  And  run  away  with 
your  pretty  daughter ;  '  but  I  only  replied 
politely,  '  Nobody  would  hire  an  inexperienced 
man  for  two  months,  which  is  as  long  as  our 
vacation  lasts.'  " 

"  But  these  must  be  rare  cases,"  said  Grant. 
"  Most  well-to-do  ladies  are  very  courteous." 

"  Yes,  when  you  meet  them  on  an  equality  in 


THREE   COLLEGE  STUDENTS.  63 

drawing-rooms ;  but  not  always  when  you  are  a 
workingman." 

"Well,  I'll  try  it  for  once.  It'll  be  a  fine 
lark  anyway,  and  I  shall  learn  something  of 
human  nature." 

"That  you  will,"  answered  Wellman.  "I'll 
take  the  country  round  that  aristocratic  town 
down  the  river,  and  you  may  take  the  stylish 
avenues.  You'll  find  blue  blood  in  plenty  — 
blue  because  the  fathers  owned  land  there  a 
little  before  the  present  generation.  Of  course, 
you  '11  find  many  well-bred  people  who  are 
proud  of  their  heads  rather  than  of  their  purses  ; 
but  even  these  are  often  very  '  select.'  We 
profess  equality,  and  are  probably  more  demo- 
cratic than  any  other  country ;  but  a  little  extra 
amount  of  front  lawn,  or  the  fact  that  our  great- 
grandfather was  a  governor,  or  that  one  woman 
has  '  William  Morris '  chintz  in  her  chambers, 
of  which,  perhaps,  her  neighbor  never  heard, — 
these  make  various  degrees  of  rank.  If  our 
ancestor  came  over  in  the  '  Mayflower,'  or  was 
even  a  sutler  in  the  Revolutionary  war,  our 
fame  is  unalterably  fixed." 

"  I  should  like  to  sell  books  in  so  high-toned 


64  THREE    COLLEGE   STUDENTS. 

a  town,"  said  Grant.  "  Maybe  I  might  fall  in 
love  with  some  dainty  daughter  of  a  lineal  de- 
scendant of  a  governor,  or  of  a  stable-boy  !  " 

"  Precious  little  good  it  would  do  a  book- 
agent,  for  you  would  be  classed  among  poor 
people  if  you  worked,  no  matter  how  rich  your 
father  might  be." 

The  conversation  had  been  listened  to  by  a 
light-haired,  blue-eyed  student,  a  poet  in  tem- 
perament and  by  heredity.  He  was  the  only 
child  of  a  devoted  minister  of  the  Gospel,  now 
dead,  and  of  a  refined  and  intellectual  mother. 
She  would  have  shielded  him  from  every  rough 
wind  had  it  been  possible,  but  at  best  she  could 
only  pray  for  him,  and  send  him  now  and  then 
a  little  box  of  comforts,  with  her  fond  and 
beautiful  letters.  He  worked  late  at  night  over 
his  books,  and  his  delicately  curved  mouth  had 
come  to  bear  an  expression  of  sadness  as  he 
looked  out  upon  the  struggle  before  him. 
Heretofore  the  little  money  of  the  household 
had  sufficed ;  but  now  he  must  earn  his  bread 
like  James  Wellman. 

"  Cheer  up !  "  said  the  latter,  who  had  no- 
ticed the  tell-tale  face  of  the  minister's  son, 


THREE    COLLEGE   STUDENTS.  65 

Kent  Raymond.  "  Blue  eyes  and  polished 
manners  will  win  kindness.  We  all  have  to  get 
a  trifle  mellowed.  We,  who  know  how  to  earn 
our  support,  get  a  little  extra  schooling  more 
than  the  other  boys,  that 's  all.  Life  is  good  or 
bad,  just  as  you  look  out  upon  it.  It 's  full 
of  sunshine  to  me,  for  I  won't  look  at  the 
shadows." 

Vacation  days  came.  Kent  and  Grant  took 
the  book-agency,  and  James  the  clothes-wringer, 
among  the  country  folk,  who  usually  have  a 
kindly  interest  in  a  boy  who  means  to  be  some- 
body in  the  world. 

One  bright  day  soon  after,  satchels  in  hand, 
the  two  college  boys  started  out  along  one  of 
the  broad  avenues  of  the  staid  old  city. 

"  Don't  get  discouraged  !  "  said  Grant  to  his 
boyish  companion,  who  shrank  from  his  task. 
"  Remember  you  're  doing  missionary  work 
every  time  you  get  a  book  into  a  house.  We  '11 
report  three  hours  from  now  at  the  end  of  the 
street." 

The  first  house  was  of  gray  stone,  set  back  in 
the  grounds ;  not  belonging  to  one  of  the  old 


66  THREE   COLLEGE   STUDENTS. 

families,  who  prefer  an  old  mansion,  lest  they 
be  counted  among  the  nouveaux  riche.  Great 
bunches  of  varied-colored  coleus  and  red  gera- 
nium mingled  with  the  greensward  like  a  piece 
of  mosaic.  Vines  were  beginning  to  grow  over 
the  stone  porch,  and  the  whole  bespoke  com- 
fort, even  luxury.  Kent  pulled  the  bell  with  a 
sinking  at  heart,  as  he  wondered  who  would 
appear  and  what  she  would  say.  A  servant, 
not  cleanly  in  apparel,  opened  the  door  after 
long  waiting.  The  true  position  of  a  family 
can  generally  be  seen  through  its  domestics. 

"  Are  the  ladies  of  the  house  in?  "  asked  the 
college  boy. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  'em  ?  " 

"  I  am  selling  a  valuable  book  about  the 
'Home.'" 

"  No,  the  missus  don't  want  it.  She  told  me 
as  how  she  niver  let  a  book-agent  inside  the 
door,  and  she  'd  scold  me  if  I  called  her.  She 
niver  reads  nothin'  but  a  novel —  niver,"  volun- 
teered the  loquacious,  but  kind-hearted  girl, 
despite  her  torn  apron  and  soiled  hands. 

At  the  next  mansion  Kent  was  told  that  the 
"  missus "  had  gone  to  the  seashore ;  but  the 


THREE   COLLEGE  STUDENTS.  67 

knowing  look  in  the  servant's  face  showed  that 
she  had  been  instructed  to  make  this  reply  to 
all  callers.  It  sounded  aristocratic  to  be  at 
Narragansett  Pier  or  on  the  Atlantic  coast, 
even  though  finances  would  not  permit  of  this 
refreshing  journey. 

At  the  next  house  a  kind-faced  woman,  who 
really  belonged  to  one  of  the  old  families,  and 
felt  none  too  proud  to  open  her  own  door,  bade 
the  young  man  a  pleasant  "  Good-morning," 
and  though  she  did  not  wish  to  purchase  the 
book,  which,  though  tastefully  made,  was  com- 
monplace in  subject,  she  thanked  him  for  seeing 
it,  and  hoped  he  would  sell  elsewhere.  His 
heart  was  a  trifle  lighter  after  this  kindly  greet- 
ing, though  his  purse  grew  no  heavier.  At  the 
next  house,  and  the  next,  he  met  with  the  same 
refusals.  Finally,  near  the  end  of  the  street, 
the  colored  man  who  opened  the  door  was  also 
striving  to  earn  money  for  a  college  course. 
He  had  been  two  years  in  Harvard  University 
already.  Both  father  and  mother  were  dead, 
but  from  love  for  a  girl  who  taught  a  colored 
school  he  had  become  ambitious,  and  deter- 
mined to  work  his  way  through  some  institu- 


68  THREE    COLLEGE   STUDENTS. 

tion.  The  subject  of  the  book  touched  his 
heart.  Katie,  his  school-teacher,  would  like  it; 
the  suggestions  about  husbands  and  wives,  and 
the  words  about  neatness,  culture,  and  tender- 
ness, would  do  both  good. 

"  How  much  is  it?"  said  the  colored  youth. 

"  Two  dollars." 

A  disappointed  look  came  into  the  face  of 
the  would-be  purchaser. 

"  I  receive  seventy-five  cents  commission," 
said  Kent,  "  and  I  will  let  you  have  the  book 
for  one  dollar  and  a  half;  that  will  leave 
twenty-five  cents  for  my  dinner." 

"  I  hate  to  ask  you  to  take  less,  sir,  but  I 
can't  pay  two  dollars,  because  I  have  n't  so 
much.  But  here's  the  one-fifty;"  and  he 
added,  as  he  held  the  book  tenderly,  "  Katie 
will  so  like  it !  "  When  a  man  is  really  in  love 
he  can't  help  telling  somebody,  even  though  it 
be  a  book-agent. 

Meanwhile  Grant  Reynolds  had  been  learn- 
ing his  first  experience  of  work  in  the  broad 
world,  which  has  too  little  care  for  and  sym- 
pathy with  toilers.  He  soon  found  that  selling 
books  from  house  to  house  was  no  "  lark,"  as 


THREE    COLLEGE  STUDENTS.  69 

he  had  anticipated.  His  lips  curled  in  disdain 
as  he  was  several  times  addressed  rudely  by 
servants,  or  by  women  whom  he  knew  were  far 
below  him  in  social  position.  Did  so  many 
fashionable  people,  then,  have  two  methods  of 
action  —  one  for  the  rich  and  the  other  for  the 
poor? 

As  he  was  thus  musing,  he  opened  a  gate 
and  walked  up  to  a  beautiful  mansion,  Eliza- 
bethan in  style,  that  one  would  imagine  to  have 
been  just  transported  from  England,  with  its 
ivies  and  great  beds  of  roses.  He  stopped 
suddenly,  for  just  before  him  a  fair-haired  girl, 
in  simple  blue,  with  broad  sun-hat  wreathed 
with  daisies,  was  clipping  a  bunch  of  deep-red 
roses.  She  looked  up  half  inquiringly,  as  the 
young  man  approached  and  lifted  his  hat.  He 
was  not  abashed  —  he  had  seen  attractive  girls 
too  often  for  that ;  but  her  kind  look  had  an 
unusual  effect  after  the  sharp  refusals  of  the 
morning. 

The  frank  face  of  Grant  could  scarcely  help 
showing  its  appreciation  of  both  girl  and  flower, 
as  he  said,  "  I  am  canvassing  for  a  book :  '  The 
Past,  Present,  and  Future  of  America.'  ' 


70  THREE    COLLEGE  STUDENTS. 

Perhaps  the  girl  did  not  care  much  for  the 
book,  but  she  liked  the  looks  of  the  tall,  manly 
youth  before  her,  and  in  her  heart  admired  a 
man  who  had  energy  and  will  enough  to  earn  a 
living  for  himself.  Most  young  men  whom  she 
had  met  had  leaned  upon  their  fathers;  and  it 
was  seldom  difficult  to  tell  what  laurels  they 
would  win  in  the  jostle  which  we  call  life. 

"May  I  see  the  book?"  she  asked,  holding 
out  one  white  hand,  while  the  other  clasped  the 
roses. 

"  Can  I  hold  the  flowers  while  you  look  ?  " 
said  Grant,  while  a  satisfied  expression  stole 
about'  his  mouth  and  large  brown  eyes. 

"  It  is  beautifully  illustrated !  I  like  pictures 
of  people  greatly.  I  am  always  wondering 
what  they  have  accomplished,  or  will  in  the 
future." 

"  Ah  !  then  you  are  ambitious?  " 

"  Yes ;  mamma  thinks  too  much  so  for  a  girl. 
I  have  wanted  to  go  to  college,"  said  the 
natural  young  woman,  "  but  she  thinks  it  is 
useless  compared  with  my  music." 

Grant  hoped  she  would  go  on  artlessly  talk- 
ing about  herself,  but  she  suddenly  changed 


THREE   COLLEGE  STUDENTS.  7  I 

the  line  of  thought,  as  she  said :  "  I  am  glad 
to  see  a  book  about  America  —  I  love  our 
country !  I  have  been  with  mamma  to  Eng- 
land and  the  south  of  Europe,  but  I  saw  noth- 
ing so  dear  as  our  own  country  and  people.  I 
think  our  men  the  noblest  in  the  world." 

There  was  no  thought  of  compliment,  for  she 
did  not  even  look  toward  the  young  man  to 
whom  she  was  apparently  talking.  At  this 
moment  a  woman,  handsomely  attired,  stood  in 
the  doorway,  and  with  clouded  brow  bade  her 
come  in. 

"  I  was  looking  at  a  beautiful  book,  mamma," 
said  Marion. 

"  We  want  no  books  of  an  agent,"  said  the 
stern,  proud  woman.  "  If  we  need  books  we 
buy  them  at  Hamerton's  "  (one  of  the  largest 
dealers  in  the  East). 

"  I  am  in  college,"  said  the  young  man, 
piqued  at  the  woman's  rudeness,  and  half 
angered  that  the  lovely  girl  should  be  found 
fault  with.  "  I  am  earning  some  money  in  this 
way,"  he  added,  not  wishing  to  lie  about  the 
matter,  and  yet  rather  enjoying  this  study  of 
human  nature. 


72  THREE    COLLEGE  STUDENTS. 

"  I  am  glad  to  help  poor  young  men,"  —  she 
remembered  when  the  shrewd  Mr.  Colwell,  her 
husband,  made  his  first  dollars  in  common 
work  at  railroading,  —  "  but  I  never  buy  of 
agents  !  Why,  we  should  be  bored  to  death  if 
we  did  !  Besides,  I  think  our  country  is  run- 
ning to  education.  Men  who  should  be  West 
on  farms  are  striving  to  go  through  college, 
and  then  will  starve  as  poor  doctors  or  lawyers 
in  the  busy  cities.  We  need  men  to  build  our 
railroads ;  Mr.  Colwell  says  men  are  so  scarce 
and  labor  so  dear  that  he  has  to  import  rough 
foreigners.  Education  is  the  bane  of  common 
folks.  It  spoils  our  girls.  Look  at  those  in 
our  high  schools! — they're  too  good  to  be 
servants.  While  their  mothers  are  toiling  over 
the  wash-tub  these  young  misses  fit  themselves 
to  be  teachers.  They  'd  better  go  West  and 
become  farmers'  wives.  They  've  got  to  marry 
common  people,  for  they  can't  get  rich  men." 

Grant  thought  to  himself  how  these  educated 
poor  girls  were  to  be  the  great  moral  force  of 
our  country  in  its  grand  future ;  but  he  made  no 
answer  as  self-sufficient  Mrs.  Colwell  went  on: 

"If    Marion    were    to    teach,   why,    all    this 


THREE    COLLEGE   STUDENTS.  73 

education  would  be  good  for  her,  perhaps;  but 
my  daughter  will  never  be  obliged  to." 

"  But  you  did  n't  see  the  book,  mamma," 
pleaded  the  girl,  whose  cheeks  had  become  as 
red  as  the  roses  which  Grant  had  handed  back 
to  her. 

"No;  and  I've  no  time  for  it.  Your  father 
is  waiting  to  take  you  to  drive.  Besides,  I 
was  surprised  to  see  you  conversing  with  a 
stranger." 

The  young  man  lifted  his  hat  to  Marion  as 
he  passed  out  of  the  gate,  but  not  till  he  had 
said  a  word  of  thanks  for  her  kindness  to  an 
unknown  student.  He  thought  he  saw  the  blue 
eyes  moisten  as  they  looked  up  to  his,  showing 
that  she  felt  her  mother's  harshness  to  a  youth 
who  appeared  to  be  working  his  way  alone  in 
the  world. 

Marion  Colwell  was  not  given  to  sentiment, 
but  she  wondered  a  thousand  times  what  would 
become  of  the  handsome  college  boy,  and  she 
could  not  help  taking  a  bud  from  the  flowers 
which  he  held  for  her  and  pressing  it  between 
the  leaves  of  a  book,  with  some  tender  yet 
painful  recollections.  Marion  seemed  unusually 


74  THREE    COLLEGE  STUDENTS. 

quiet  during  the  ride  with  her  father,  but  no 
word  was  spoken  about  the  book-agent ;  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Colwell  lived  so  independently  of 
each  other  that  the  daughter  never  thought  of 
confiding  her  troubles  to  either. 

At  the  end  of  the  three  hours  the  two  college 
students  met  to  recount  their  experiences  and 
successes.  Grant  had  not  sold  a  single  book, 
but  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  red  rosebud,  and 
showing  it  to  Kent  said :  "I'm  foolish,  I  do 
believe;  but  I've  seen  a  girl  to-day  who  has 
paid  me  a  thousand  times  for  all  the  annoyance 
of  being  a  book-agent.  Perhaps  I  shall  never 
see  her  again,  but  I  shall  keep  in  memory  one 
lovely  face,  and  I  know  she  has  a  noble  soul.  I 
took  this  bud,  unbeknown  to  her,  from  a  bunch 
I  held  for  her  while  she  looked  over  that  book. 
I  '11  not  part  with  the  book  either,  since  she  has 
looked  at  its  pictures." 

Kent  did  not  make  fun  of  him,  for  he  had  a 
warm  heart,  and  enjoyed  the  picture  which 
Grant  drew  of  the  fair  young  face.  The  vaca- 
tion came  to  its  close.  Some  money  had  been 
made  by  each  of  the  three  students,  Grant 
dividing  his  equally  between  James  and  Kent. 


THREE   COLLEGE  STUDENTS.  75 

Eight  years  had  come  and  gone.  James 
Wellman  was  in  business,  and  had  become  suc- 
cessful. Kent  had  graduated  with  honor,  but 
gone  home  to  his  widowed  mother  to  die. 
Grant  had  studied  theology,  and  for  three  years 
had  been  settled  in  a  Western  city,  whither  he 
had  been  drawn  by  his  friend  Wellman.  A 
July  morning  came  like  that  on  which  he  had 
passed  from  house  to  house  along  the  city 
streets  to  sell  books.  The  young  minister  stood 
in  his  accustomed  place,  about  to  preach  from 
the  well-known  text,  "  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the 
waters ;  for  thou  shalt  find  it  after  many  days." 
A  lady,  dressed  in  blue,  who  was  a  stranger  to 
the  congregation,  entered,  and  was  shown  to  a 
seat  well  in  front.  She  looked  long  and  ear- 
nestly at  the  speaker,  as  though  she  was  aware 
whom  she  had  come  to  hear.  For  a  moment, 
as  the  minister  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  face, 
he  changed  color,  but  immediately  regained  his 
self-possession. 

After  the  service  he  stepped  directly  down  to 
the  pew,  and  the  parishioners  said  to  one  an- 
other :  "  Why,  we  did  n't  know  that  the  new 


76  THREE    COLLEGE  STUDENTS. 

school-teacher,  Miss  Colwell,  was  a  friend  of 
our  pastor !  " 

He  said,  as  he  shook  her  hand,  "  I  am  glad 
once  more  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  of 
years  ago."  He  spoke  slowly,  as  one  who  has 
had  hopes  and  conquered  them.  "  Is  your 
mother  with  you  ? "  involuntarily  rose  to  his 
lips. 

"  No  ;  I  am  alone,  and  teaching  in  your  city." 

"  I  have  been  to  your  Eastern  home,  but  was 
told  that  you  had  gone  West ;  and  further  than 
that  I  could  learn  nothing." 

And  then  the  past  years  were  gone  over. 
Mr.  Colwell  had  failed,  not  with  honor,  and  had 
been  glad  to  go  West,  as  his  wife  had  recom- 
mended Grant  to  do  years  before,  and  had 
become  lost  in  the  whirl  of  a  great  city.  Mrs. 
Colwell  allowed  it  to  be  reported  that  Marion 
was  to  marry  a  rich  widower.  A  wealthy 
family  came  to  occupy  the  Colwell  mansion, 
and  society  interested  itself  in  the  new  and 
forgot  the  old.  And  now  Marion,  poor  and 
unmarried,  had  come  to  the  public  school  as 
a  teacher. 

The  minister  called  often   at  the   school,  and 


THREE   COLLEGE  STUDENTS.  77 

finally  the  gossips  suspected  that  the  cause  of 
education  was  not  the  only  motive  for  his  visits. 
Once  when  he  called  he  laid  down  a  pressed 
and  faded  red  bud.  "  Do  you  remember  those 
flowers  I  held  so  many  years  ago?"  And, 
blushing,  she  told  him  of  a  similar  one  which 
she  treasured. 

A  look  of  joy  and  half  surprise  came  into  his 
face.  "  Did  you,  then,  think  of  one  whom  you 
supposed  a  poor  boy,  Marion?  " 

"  And  do  you  think  of  one  who  is  in  reality 
a  poor  girl  now?  " 

The  wedding  was  a  quiet  one,  Marion  wear- 
ing, at  Grant's  request,  a  simple  blue  dress,  with 
red  roses  in  her  hand.  What  were  Mrs.  Col- 
well's  thoughts  as  she  looked  at  the  book-agent, 
now  her  son,  no  one  could  know,  for  poverty 
had  not  made  her  less  proud,  but  it  had  doubt- 
less made  her  more  considerate  and  courteous. 

"  I  would  sell  books  again  to  find  you, 
Marion;"  and  her  pretty  blue  eyes  looked 
their  happiness  in  response. 


THE   TWILIGHT   HOUR   SOCIETY. 

"  FT  ELENA,  we  must  send  out  the  invitations 
•*-  •*•  this  very  afternoon  for  the  new  literary 
society.  It  must  be  done  with  great  care,  too. 
I  wish  this  to  be  the  most  select  club  of  the 
West." 

The  speaker  was  Mrs.  Helen  Brunswick,  who 
had  just  returned  from  Europe.  She  was 
a  lady  of  considerable  culture  and  taste,  and, 
what  was  not  an  inconvenient  addition,  of 
wealth.  Her  husband,  a  good  business  man, 
had  died — perhaps  opportunely;  for,  though 
Mrs.  Brunswick  was  polite  to  him,  she  told  her 
bosom  friends  that  "  he  was  not  poetical,"  and, 
therefore,  not  a  very  congenial  spirit.  His  wife 
was  a  teacher  when  he  married  her,  poor,  but 
of  very  good  family,  and  his  money  was  un- 
doubtedly the  chief  attraction. 

She  had  one  child,  whose  name,  for  the  sake 

of  elegance,  she   always   called    Helena   rather 

than  Helen,  and  of  whom  she  was  very  fond  ; 

but  her  one  absorbing  plan  vya.s  to  make   her 

78 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY.  79 

home  a  literary  centre.  She  bought,  on  her 
return  from  Europe,  an  old-fashioned  house, — 
a  new  one  would  have  seemed  vulgar  to  her 
aesthetic  taste,  —  and  furnished  it  as  nearly  as 
possible  like  the  houses  of  some  celebrated 
persons  which  she  had  seen  abroad.  She 
revelled  in  old  tapestries,  and  bronzes  which 
looked  as  though  they  were  made  in  the  bronze 
age. 

Helena  sat  down,  note-book  in  hand,  to  make 
out  a  list  of  those  who  were  to  be  honored 
members  of  the  new  association. 

"  Shall  we  invite  Fanny  Green,  mamma?" 
"  Oh,  no,  dear  !  She  is  only  a  local  poet,  get- 
ting a  few  articles  into  the  newspapers  here  and 
there.  This  society  will  not  be  established  to 
help  struggling  newspaper  writers  or  embryo 
artists.  These  will  make  their  way  somehow  if 
they  have  talent,  but  the  elegant  ladies  of  Lake- 
villc  will  not  care  to  associate  with  such  crude 
aspirants.  We  must  take  those  from  the  very 
highest  walks  of  life,  those  who  enjoy  art  espe- 
cially, and  can  prepare  an  essay  on  sculpture  or 
Egyptian  lore.  The  young  artists  and  novelists 
are  usually  poor  and  hard  workers,  so  they 


80  THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY. 

would  have  no  time  to  look  up  these  subjects, 
which  require  great  research  and  the  leisure 
that  only  a  lady  of  wealth  has." 

"  But,  mamma,  it  would  so  help  the  rising 
artists  if  their  pictures  could  be  brought  before 
the  society.  They  would  be  purchased,  prob- 
ably, for  the  elegant  homes." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Most  elegant  ladies  want  a  picture 
painted  by  a  famous  artist,  so  that  when  they 
speak  of  the  work  to  a  friend  the  talent  will  be 
seen  at  once." 

"  Don't  they  know  talent  when  they  see  it, 
whether  John  Smith  or  Bougereau  painted  it?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  Helena  !  You  must  not  ask 
too  much  of  people.  I  don't  care  to  read  a  book 
unless  a  well-known  name  is  on  the  title-page. 
I  consider  it  a  waste  of  time.  As  soon  as  a 
man  has  made  his  mark  I  am  glad  to  read 
him." 

The  rising  artists  and  the  rising  editors  and 
contributors  were  not  invited  to  membership  in 
the  new  organization.  Thirty-five  names  were 
sent  out. 

"  We  must  not  have  more  than  twenty-five  in 
the  circle,  Helena,  for  large  societies  are  never 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY.  8 1 

select.  If  there  are  but  a  few,  and  those  very 
literary,  they  will  praise  each  other  and  feel 
proud  of  the  pleasure  of  belonging.  There  's 
everything  in  knowing  how  to  handle  women. 
Let  them  think  it  is  exclusive  and  there  will  be 
a  great  longing  to  join  ;  and  when  they  cannot 
be  admitted,  from  the  smallness  of  the  number, 
the  society  will  become  the  leading  topic  of  the 
city.  Each  member,  too,  will  be  all  the  more 
interested  if  she  takes  her  turn  in  writing  an 
essay,  and  this  would  not  be  possible  in  a  large 
society." 

"  Why,  mother,  half  of  those  whom  you  have 
named  could  n't  write  an  essay  !  " 

"  Well,  my  child,  they  have  some  friend  who 
can  help  them.  Money  always  buys  help,  and 
usually  of  a  very  superior  kind." 

The  invitations  were  sent  out,  and  in  due 
time  the  elegant  ladies  arrived.  They  admired 
Mrs.  Brunswick's  rugs,  her  choice  bits  of 
needlework  from  abroad,  and  especially  her 
antique  bronzes. 

The  first  tribulation  of  the  society  was  over 
the  adoption  of  a  name.  The  "  Mutual  Club  " 
was  suggested,  but  "  club "  seemed  strong- 


82  THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY. 

minded  to  some  of  the  ladies  present,  and  was 
abandoned.  One  suggested  the  "  Society  for 
Intellectual  Growth, "but  this  seemed  to  suggest 
labor,  and  it  would  not  be  best  to  suggest  very 
much  work  to  such  a  charming  circle.  Mrs. 
Brunswick  herself  suggested,  after  many  others 
had  spoken,  that  the  "Twilight  Hour"  would 
be  poetic  and  refining,  and  as  the  members 
would  usually  come  late  in  the  afternoon,  or  in 
the  evening  if  some  celebrity  were  invited,  this 
name  would  cover  all  times  and  seasons,  con- 
vey no  impression  of  moral  reforms,  and 
frighten  no  husbands  with  the  fear  that  their 
wives  would  become  unsuited  to  pretty  gowns 
by  mental  wear. 

This  name  was  voted  a  happy  thought,  and 
the  plan  proceeded.  A  committee  on  member- 
ship was  suggested,  only  twenty  having  re- 
sponded to  the  invitation,  and  five  more  could 
be  admitted.  One  lady,  the  wife  of  a  senator, 
must  be  secured  at  all  hazards,  and  this  com- 
mittee were  to  wait  upon  her  at  once.  An- 
other lady  had  travelled  nearly  the  world  over, 
and  had  several  millions  in  her  own  right,  and 
must  on  no  account  be  omitted.  A  third  was 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR  SOCIETY.  83 

selected  for  no  especial  reason  except  she  had 
held  herself  above  ordinary  society,  and  the 
select  had  come  to  regard  this  as  a  sign  of 
aristocracy.  Real  aristocracy  is  too  quiet  to 
attract  much  attention,  but  the  unreal  is  very 
prevalent. 

The  desired  number  was  made  up,  and  the 
"  Twilight  Hour  Society,"  as  was  expected, 
became  the  talk  of  Lakeville.  A  Gentlemen's 
Night  was  given  occasionally,  and  those  only 
were  invited  who  were  supposed  to  be  poetic. 
There  \\fas  a  leaning  toward  the  ministerial  pro- 
fession, and  a  few  judges  and  doctors  were 
permitted  to  enter  the  select  circle.  The  time 
came  when  it  was  necessary  to  invite  a  celeb- 
rity. Mrs.  Wentworth  was  talking  the  matter 
over  with  Mrs.  Brunswick. 

"I  hear,"  said  the  former  lady,  "that  the 
author  of  the  new  book  which  has  just  ap- 
peared in  Boston,  "  The  Story  of  a  Life,"  is  to 
be  at  Lakeville  soon  to  visit  a  cousin.  The 
book  is  selling  rapidly.  It  is  a  delightful 
psychological  story  of  a  woman's  heart,  I  have 
heard,  and  the  men  are  as  eager  to  read  it  as 
the  women.  Mr.  Smithnight,  the  author,  has 


84  THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY. 

become  famous  suddenly,  and  all  the  young 
ladies  are  enthusiastic  over  him.  He  is  quite 
young,  and  very  delightful,  they  say." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Brunswick,  "  anything 
that  comes  from  Boston  is  delightful !  Society 
is  very  deep  there.  The  people  are  always 
making  a  study  of  hidden  things  of  the  mind, 
while  we  at  the  West  are  so  very  practical  over 
the  bread  and  butter  matters  of  life.  Alas ! 
how  far  we  are  drifting  from  the  beautiful  and 
the  sublime !  We  must  have  Mr.  Smithnight 
at  our  next  reception,  and  make  it  as  elegant 
as  possible.  How  lovely  those  people  are  who 
write  books !  " 

The  cousin  of  Mr.  Smithnight,  who  lived  on 
a  side  street,  and  never  would  have  been 
thought  worthy  to  step  into  the  Twilight  Hour 
circle,  was  visited,  and  asked  if  a  reception  for 
Mr.  Smithnight  could  possibly  be  arranged. 
The  young  Plato  was  glad  to  be  shown  off 
before  the  admiring  gaze  of  the  uncultured 
West,  and  readily  consented  to  be  present. 

"  Helena,"  said  Mrs.  Brunswick,  as  they 
draped  the  mantel  with  smilax  and  lilies  of  the 
valley,  "  I  have  always  hoped  that  you  would 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY.  85 

marry  an  author.  Perhaps  in  Mr.  Smithnight 
you  will  find  your  ideal." 

"  I  hope  he  's  handsome,  mamma,  and  not 
too  conceited,  as  so  many  literary  people 
are." 

"  I  think  you  misjudge  literary  people,  dear. 
They  must  hold  themselves  aloof  from  gen- 
eral society,  else  they  would  not  be  considered 
so  great.  You  know  a  writer  across  the  water 
always  seems  greater  to  us  than  our  own 
authors." 

The  old-fashioned  house  of  the  Brunswicks 
was  lighted,  not  so  gorgeously  as  to  seem  loud, 
and  fragrant  flowers  were  in  profusion.  Very 
elegant  people  came  in  their  choicest  robes  to 
pay  allegiance  to  the  new  novelist.  Had  he 
been  a  poet,  he  must  needs  have  waited  till 
he  was  fifty  for  America  to  find  out  whether 
he  had  genius  or  no ;  had  he  been  a  scientist, 
he  would  not  have  won  his  fame  till  death 
probably ;  but  having  given  the  public  a  well- 
written  book  which  sold,  America  at  once  pro- 
nounced him  a  genius.  Without  doubt  there 
were  wheels  within  wheels  which  procured  its 
publication.  Perhaps  he  was  a  cousin  to  some 


86  THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR  SOCIETY. 

first-class  novelist,  or  had  a  governor  to  recom- 
mend his  work ;  for  how  are  publishers  to  know 
when  a  thing  will  be  a  success?  Nearly  all  the 
great  books,  like  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  and 
"  Jane  Eyre,"  have  been  refused  for  months, 
and  even  years. 

Mr.  Smithnight  was  present  to  receive  the 
homage  of  Lakeville.  He  had  a  fine,  even 
commanding,  presence :  black  hair,  which  lay 
lightly  over  his  forehead,  a  stray  lock  droop- 
ing occasionally,  which  his  white  hand  tossed 
back;  expressive  dark  eyes  ;  and  a  bland  smile. 
He  was  evidently  a  good  student  of  human 
nature,  for,  while  he  was  egotistical,  —  success- 
ful men  usually  have  a  good  opinion  of  them- 
selves, —  he  had  the  tact  to  make  every  lady 
feel  that  the  intellectual  culture  of  Lakeville 
was  something  phenomenal.  Mrs.  Brunswick 
thanked  him  heartily  for  coming,  coming  from 
such  a  centre  of  knowledge  as  Boston,  to  stimu- 
late the  over-practical  West.  She  wanted  to 
enjoy  his  conversation  at  another  time,  when 
she  and  dear  Helena  could  have  him  all  to 
themselves.  As  he  took  his  departure  he  held 
Helena's  hand  somewhat  tenderly,  and  begged 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY.  87 

the  pleasure  of  frequent  visits  during  his  short 
stay  at  Lakeville. 

"Helena,"  said  Mrs.  Brunswick,  after  the 
guests  had  departed,  "  I  think  Mr.  Smithnight 
the  most  charming  celebrity  we  have  ever  had. 
Think  how  people  will  speak  of  it !  I  know  of 
nothing  so  delightful  as  a  salon  for  literary 
people.  How  many  must  envy  me  the  rare 
pleasure  of  bringing  together  these  appreciative 
people  and  these  great  people !  You  know 
some  of  our  celebrities  from  other  cities  have 
been  so  dull  and  stupid,  and  read  such  non- 
understandable  essays,  that  our  ladies  have  not 
known  what  to  say  or  do.  I  think  some  of  the 
manuscripts  must  have  lain  in  trunks  for  years. 
But  Mr.  Smithnight  is  so  charming,  so  fresh 
and  entertaining!  I  think  he  likes  you,  Helena, 
for  I  saw  him  bestowing  very  admiring  glances 
upon  you." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  did  n't  trouble  myself  much 
about  him.  I  liked  him,  though,  well  enough." 

"  Oh,  you  must  be  very  polite  to  him,  my  dear, 
for  literary  chances  are  so  rare  at  the  West ! 
Think  where  such  a  man  would  place  you." 

Mr.  Smithnight's  stay  at  Lakeville  grew  from 


88  THE    TWILIGHT  PI  OUR  SOCIETY. 

days  into  weeks,  and  finally  into  months.  He 
was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Mrs.  Brunswick's,  and 
rumor  whispered  that  he  was  to  wed  Helena. 
Mrs.  Brunswick  made  him  the  lion  of  the  city. 
She  bought  sundry  copies  of  the  "  Story  of  a 
Life,"  and  placed  them  where  they  would 
receive  glowing  notices  by  the  press,  and  be 
read  by  the  most  select  of  Lakeville  society. 
She  sent  several  copies  abroad,  telling  the 
recipients  that  it  was  written  by  a  special  friend 
of  Helena's. 

Mr.  Smithnight  had  found  no  such  encourag- 
ing aid  in  Boston.  There  a  few  mutual  friends 
helped  each  other,  but  the  outside  world 
troubled  itself  little  about  the  strugglers  for 
fame.  At  last  it  was  publicly  announced  that 
Mr.  Smithnight  and  Helena  were  engaged. 
Some  common-sense  mothers  wondered  if  he 
had  the  ability  to  earn  a  living,  knowing  that 
literature  in  general  is  not  a  paying  business. 
Some  wondered  whether  he  was  able  to  spend 
so  much  as  he  seemed  to  be  doing  weekly ;  but 
marrying  a  young  lady  well-to-do  might  be  an 
effective  way  of  meeting  debts. 

Mrs.  Brunswick    would    have   preferred    that 


THE    TWILIGHT  HOUR   SOCIETY.  89 

the  young  couple  live  with  her,  but  Helena 
wished  a  house  of  her  own,  which  was  ac- 
cordingly purchased.  Mr.  Smithnight,  with  his 
refined  taste,  helped  in  the  selection  of  the 
furniture  and  the  bridal  trousseau,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  buy  the  best. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  last  articles  had 
been  purchased,  a  wild  rumor  was  heard  on  the 
street  that  Mr.  Smithnight  had  been  seen  driv- 
ing out  of  town  with  a  lady  who  was  not  Helena 
Brunswick  ;  that  many  bills  had  been  contracted 
in  Mrs.  Brunswick's  name  and  left  unpaid;  and 
that  money  had  been  obtained  at  the  bank 
fraudulently  by  the  departing  celebrity. 

Mrs.  Brunswick  was  overwhelmed  with  the 
news.  Helena  was  exceedingly  annoyed,  but 
in  no  wise  heart-broken,  because  for  years  she 
had  liked  a  poor  young  artist  of  the  city,  who 
was  not  thought  high  enough  to  be  invited  to 
the  Twilight  Hour  Society. 

The  literary  association  finally  disbanded. 
Mrs.  Brunswick  sold  the  old-fashioned  home  and 
moved  to  another  city,  holding  no  more  recep- 
tions for  celebrities.  Helena  married  her  poor 
artist,  who  rose  to  eminence  in  his  profession. 


I 


SLAVE    AMY. 

N  North  Carolina  over  a  century  ago  lived 
Mr.  John  Payne,  a  wealthy  planter,  de- 
scended from  an  earl's  daughter.  He  and 
Thomas  Jefferson,  who  afterwards  became 
President  of  the  United  States,  both  loved  the 
same  beautiful  girl,  Mary  Coles.  She  preferred 
young  Payne,  and  married  him,  and  became  the 
mother  of  Dolly,  the  wife  of  President  James 
Madison,  one  of  the  most  beloved  women  ever 
in  the  White  House. 

Dolly  was  an  uncommonly  beautiful  child, 
and  her  fond  mother,  lest  the  sun  should  tan 
her  face,  used  to  sew  a  sunbonnet  on  her  head 
every  morning,  and  put  long  gloves  on  her 
arms  when  she  went  to  school. 

Mr.  Payne,  her  father,  a  Quaker,  became 
convinced  that  slavery  was  a  sin,  and  sold  his 
plantation,  freed  his  slaves,  and  moved  to  Phil- 
adelphia in  1786.  This  was  just  after  the 
Revolutionary  war,  and  the  money  of  the 

country   had   become   depreciated. 
90 


SLAVE  AMY.  91 

John,  his  oldest  son,  was  travelling  in  Europe, 
and  came  home  to  help  his  father  start  in  busi- 
ness. Neither  knew  much  about  close  econ- 
omy, or  business  methods,  or  the  dishonesty  of 
some  of  their  competitors.  After  a  time  Mr. 
Payne  failed,  and  the  rich  family  was  reduced 
to  poverty. 

The  father  sank  under  his  misfortune.  A 
wealthy  young  man  by  the  name  of  Todd,  of 
excellent  habits,  had  befriended  Mr.  Payne  in 
his  pecuniary  troubles.  He  wished  to  marry 
Dolly,  but  she  did  not  love  him  well  enough. 

The  father  called  the  young  beauty  of  nine- 
teen to  his  dying  bed  and  told  her  his  wish 
that  she  should  accept  John  Todd.  Dolly  con- 
sented, and  thus  made  her  father's  last  days 
happy.  Mr.  Todd  proved  a  devoted  husband, 
but  died  of  yellow  fever  three  years  after  their 
marriage,  leaving  Dolly  with  two  little  children, 
one  a  baby  of  three  weeks,  who  died  soon  after. 
Two  years  later  she  married  James  Madison. 

Mr.  Payne  and  his  beautiful  wife,  Mary  Coles, 
had  always  been  kind  to  their  slaves,  so  much 
so  that  some  refused  to  leave  them,  and  came 
to  Philadelphia  to  live  in  their  house. 


92  SLAVE  AMY. 

One  poor  slave,  called  "  Mother  Amy,"  when 
freed,  went  out  to  service.  She  saved  all  her 
money  carefully ;  nobody  could  guess  for  what 
purpose.  She  was  unlettered,  but  she  had  the 
gratitude  and  devotion  characteristic  of  her  race. 

For  herself  she  could  endure  poverty  and 
not  mind  it.  She  did  not  need  or  care  for  fine 
clothes,  but  she  could  not  bear  that  the  woman 
who  was  once  her  lovely  owner  should  be  in 
reduced  circumstances. 

When  death  came  for  "  Mother  Amy"  after 
all  the  hard  years  of  labor,  she  left  five  hundred 
dollars,  which  she  had  struggled  all  the  years  to 
save,  to  Mrs.  Payne,  her  widowed  mistress. 

One  does  not  have  to  look  in  elegant  man- 
sions, or  among  the  educated  only,  for  the 
noble  virtues  of  self-sacrifice.  No  character  is 
fine  or  beautiful  without  it.  "  Mother  Amy  "  left 
a  name  and  example  worthy  to  be  remem- 
bered. 


LIKE    OUR    NEIGHBORS. 

"  \\  /E  must  have  a  party,"  said  Mrs.  Morris 
*  *  to  her  husband.  "  I  am  under  obli- 
gations to  Mrs.  Raymond  and  Mrs.  Nichols, 
and  to  no  end  of  ladies  who  have  invited  me  to 
their  homes." 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  afford  it,  wife,  for 
times  are  hard.  I  have  n't  made  a  cent, 
scarcely,  in  business  during  the  past  year." 

"Well,  it  will  never  do  to  let  people  know 
that  we  are  straitened.  That  would  hurt  your 
business.  Besides,  the  children  are  coming 
on ;  and  I  must  keep  in  society  for  their  sakes. 
I  don't  want  to  have  a  party  in  a  niggardly 
way,  either.  We  must  have  the  house  fixed  up 
to  look  as  well  as  our  neighbors',  and  I  must 
have  my  last  silk  dress  made  over  in  the 
present  style." 

Mr.    Morris   sighed,    for    he    found    life    a 

struggle.     If  he  had  spent  money  for  tobacco, 

clubs,   and   the    like,    there    might    have   been 

some  excuse    for  Mrs.  Morris's    lack  of  econ- 

93 


94  LIKE    OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

omy;  but  he  was  careful  and  saving,  and,  had 
his  wife  been  of  a  similar  disposition,  they 
would  have  been  in  easy  circumstances.  As  it 
was,  people  wondered  why  she  dressed  so  well, 
and  commented  upon  it ;  but  she  thought  they 
admired  her  good  looks  and  fine  appearance. 
The  world,  after  all,  is  fairly  sensible,  and 
usually  knows  better  than  we  think  whether 
people  can  afford  fine  houses  and  fine  clothes. 
There  is  seldom  any  great  amount  of  de- 
ception. 

Mrs.  Morris  carried  her  points,  as  usual. 
Money  was  borrowed ;  the  dress  was  made 
over;  the  guests  were  invited;  and  the  Morris 
party,  with  its  flowers  and  supper  and  display, 
was  the  talk  of  the  hour,  till  it  was  forgotten  in 
the  next  sensation. 

Mrs.  Morris  had  to  go  to  the  seashore  every 
year,  because  her  neighbors  did.  She  left  her 
comfortable  home;  and  for  six  weeks,  while 
Mr.  Morris  lived  as  best  he  could,  she  had  the 
joy  of  staying  in  a  small,  inconvenient,  unat- 
tractive room  at  a  hotel,  where  she  was  kept 
awake  by  noise  in  the  corridors,  missed  the  re- 
freshing shade  of  her  own  trees  at  home,  and 


LIKE   OUR  NEIGHBORS.  95 

was  more  tired  at  the  end  of  the  season  than  at 
the  beginning. 

Mrs.  Morris  had  to  enlarge  her  house  by  a 
music-room  and  a  library,  because  her  neigh- 
bors did.  She  read  little,  but  a  library  was  a 
good  thing  to  have.  It  made  one  seem  intel- 
lectual. She  was  somewhat  intelligent,  but 
superficial.  As  for  music,  she  did  not  play 
much ;  but  sometimes  her  guests  did,  and  a 
music-room  was  an  attraction. 

Mrs.  Morris  had  to  have  a  good  pew  in 
church,  for  she  desired  to  be  eminently  respect- 
able. She  had  to  give  occasionally,  or  be 
thought  mean.  She  must  be  seen  now  and 
then  at  concerts,  operas,  and  lectures,  or  she 
would  not  be  in  good  society. 

She  had  to  have  a  horse  and  carriage,  as 
these  were  needed  for  making  calls.  She  was 
obliged  to  keep  servants,  because  she  was  so 
busy  with  social  life.  Had  her  visits  been 
among  the  poor  or  the  unfortunate,  they  might 
have  helped  the  world ;  but  her  time  now  was 
spent  simply  for  her  own  social  pleasure,  and 
with  the  thought,  perhaps,  that  she  was  adding 
to  Mr.  Morris's  popularity.  He  cared  for  his 


96  LIKE    OUR  NEIGHBORS. 

home,  however,  far  more  than  for  the  outside 
world,  and  would  have  been  happier  had  he 
been  permitted  to  enjoy  it. 

Mrs.  Morris,  by  persistent  effort  and  tact, 
had  become  quite  a  social  leader.  It  never 
seemed  to  occur  to  her  that,  when  people  lived 
beyond  their  means,  there  must  sometime  be 
a  settlement. 

This  came  one  day  when  Mr.  Morris  was 
severely  injured  by  a  street-car,  lingered  for 
several  months,  and  then  died.  It  was  a  great 
blow  to  Mrs.  Morris  in  more  ways  than  one. 
When  the  income  ceased  the  house  was  sold 
to  pay  borrowed  money,  the  parties  and  sup- 
pers were  over,  the  fine  clothes  disappeared, 
and  with  them  Mrs.  Morris's  position  in  society. 
The  world  forgot  her.  It  was  a  hard  lesson  to 
learn,  but  a  lesson  that  many  women  have 
learned  to  their  sorrow.  Yet  many  must  travel 
the  old  road  of  experience. 


TWO    AT    ONCE. 

TT  was  the  afternoon  of  May  15.  A  young 
•*•  lady  sat  by  an  open  window  looking  out 
upon  the  hawthorn  and  laburnum  trees,  and  yet 
her  thoughts  seemed  to  be  elsewhere. 

About  her  was  every  luxury.  The  brick 
house,  in  Queen  Anne  style,  was  set  in  the 
midst  of  trees,  many  of  them  now  in  blossom, 
or  graceful  with  their  seed-tassels.  Far  away 
in  the  distance  the  ocean  could  be  seen.  The 
girl  herself  added  much  to  this  charm  of  the 
picture,  as  she  rested  her  elbow  upon  her  blue- 
velvet  writing-desk,  where  scores  of  addressed 
envelopes  were  piled  up.  She  took  up  one  and 
read  the  superscription  —  "  Herbert  Under- 
wood, 7  Brompton  Place." 

"  I  am  really  sorry.  I  wish  it  had  not  gone 
so  far,"  she  said  aloud,  as  the  color  faded  a 
little  from  her  cheek;  "but  then,"  and  the 
color  came  back,  "  Herbert  will  not  mind  it 
more  than  other  men.  They  seem  to  forget 
such  things  soon.  I  have  loved  him  for  years, 
97 


98  TWO  AT   ONCE. 

as  two  may  who  grow  up  together,  but  other 
girls  are  ready  to  accept  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  will  really  care  much.  He 
will  be  surprised  when  he  reads  these  cards 
announcing  my  marriage  to  another.  Engaged 
to  two  at  once  !  I  suppose  they  will  say  I  am 
a  coquette.  It  is  so  delightful  to  be  admired 
—  to  be  loved.  I  really  wish  I  had  told  him 
that  Robert  loves  me  also.  Robert  is  not 
richer  nor  handsomer,  but  Herbert  seems 
more  like  a  brother. 

"  Besides,  it  will  be  so  charming  to  live  in 
Washington,  and  meet  all  the  celebrities.  I 
hope  it  is  not  frivolous,  for  I  suppose  all  girls 
like  society.  I  wonder  what  Herbert  will  do. 
Perhaps  he  will  write  me  that  he  is  broken- 
hearted ;  perhaps  he  will  come  in  person  and 
rebuke  me.  He  is  very  proud,  though,  and  I 
think  he  will  bear  it  bravely.  I  had  a  friend 
who  engaged  herself  to  two  at  once,  and  the 
rejected  young  man  shot  himself.  I  hope 
Herbert  will  not  do  that !  " 

The  cards  were  sent,  and  preparations  went 
forward  for  a  grand  wedding.  Dresses  were 
tried  on,  and  boxes  of  presents  were  opened 


TWO  AT  ONCE.  99 

with  eager  curiosity  —  those  offerings  which 
usually  mean  so  little,  and  cramp  the  recipients 
for  the  next  ten  years  in  returning  like  favors. 
There  was  nothing  from  Herbert  —  not  even  a 
letter. 

"  How  strange !  "  said  the  expectant  bride. 
When  Mr.  Underwood  received  the  cards  he 
was  indeed  confounded,  not  heart-broken,  for 
though  he  had  long  loved  Clara  Rawley  he  had 
questioned  for  some  time  her  complete  devo- 
tion to  him. 

She  had  been  a  society  prize  —  rich,  pretty, 
admired.  He,  likewise  of  fine  family,  could 
have  won  many.  It  was  of  course  a  disap- 
pointment, a  humiliation.  His  friends  would 
know  it,  and  wonder  at  it.  Some  men  would 
have  taken  a  hasty  departure  to  Europe ;  some 
would  have  been  embittered  by  a  young 
woman's  double  dealing.  He  determined, 
perhaps  not  the  most  honorable  thing  for  him, 
to  recompense  evil  for  evil. 

By  wise  investigation  he  ascertained  at  what 
hour  the  happy  bridegroom,  Robert  Spalding, 
was  expected  at  the  home  of  his  betrothed,  and 
decided  to  meet  him  on  the  train  previous  to 


IOO  TWO  AT  ONCE. 

his  arrival.  They  had  met  each  other  once  or 
twice,  and  thus  it  was  not  difficult  to  discern  in 
the  crowded  cars  the  handsome  face  of  his  rival. 

"  Mr.  Spalding,  I  believe." 

"  Yes.  Oh,  I  remember  you  —  Mr.  Under- 
wood, the  friend  of  Miss  Rawley !  Glad  to  see 
you ;  sit  down." 

Presently  the  conversation  turned  upon  the 
approaching  wedding,  and  then  with  apparent 
calmness,  but  with  indignation,  Herbert  told 
him  how  he  had  been  engaged  to  Miss  Rawley 
for  several  years,  and  of  her  perfidy. 

Mr.  Spalding  listened  with  astonishment, 
and  when  he  had  finished,  lost  faith,  ceased  to 
find  her  the  ideal  of  his  life.  She  had  been 
faithless  to  one  ;  she  might  be  to  another.  She 
certainly  was  undeserving  of  the  love  he  had 
given  her.  He  determined,  then  and  there,  to 
retrace  his  steps,  and  sent  her  a  telegram,  fol- 
lowed by  a  letter,  telling  her  of  the  withdrawal 
of  his  hand. 

The  Rawley  family  were  in  consternation 
when  the  letter  was  received.  Clara  was  piqued, 
angered,  and  became  ill  over  it,  and  was  sent  to 
Europe.  The  careless  if  not  heartless  girl  had 
been  punished. 


THE    HOUSE-WARMING. 

"  A  LMOST  ready  for  the  great  event,"  said 
**•  Mr.  Josiah  Midland,  portly  and  genial, 
to  his  wife  Martha,  as  they  stood  on  the  porch 
of  a  two-story  brick  house,  nearly  completed. 
"  I  want  the  new  house  for  you,  Martha,  and  I 
want  it  also,  I  must  confess,  to  show  the  people 
of  Collinston  that  Josiah  Midland  has  been  a 
financial  success.  You  know  life  has  been  a 
struggle  since  I  left  this  town  a  boy,  and  worked 
my  way  on  the  railroad  to  a  place  of  trust. 
Life  is  not  an  easy  thing  for  the  best  of  us,  and 
where  the  one  gains  in  the  race,  the  many  are 
so  bound  by  the  needs  of  every  day  that  they 
can  never  rise  above  their  surroundings.  I  kept 
good  habits  and  saved  my  money.  I  owe  that 
teaching  to  my  hard-working  mother." 

"Yes,  you  have  been  a  great  success,"  said 
the  thin  and  careworn  wife,  who  had  shared  his 
struggles  and  did  not  possess  his  buoyant  tem- 
perament to  throw  off  the  wear  of  daily  life. 

"  I  almost  dread  to  have  a  house-warming,  for 
101 


IO2  THE  HOUSE-WARMING. 

it  will  cost  so  much  and  bring  no  end  of  work. 
I  should  like  to  have  the  people  see  our  beautiful 
home,  but  you  know  I  cannot  shine  in  society." 

Mrs.  Midland  looked  up  to  her  husband  as 
the  great  factor  in  their  worldly  gains,  and  so 
he  was ;  but  he  owed  much  to  the  economy  and 
good  sense  of  the  quiet  woman  who  was  glad 
to  be  his  helper. 

"  Oh,  you  will  shine  enough,  Martha,  so  that 
I  shall  be  proud  of  you  !  After  the  furniture  is 
once  in  the  house  we  will  invite  everybody  — 
yes,  everybody,  rich  and  poor.  It 's  great  folly 
for  a  man  to  make  social  distinctions  for  him- 
self as  soon  as  he  has  a  few  thousands.  I  want 
to  have  them  all  enjoy  the  house.  It 's  the 
handsomest  house  in  the  village,  and  they  '11  all 
be  glad  to  come.  The  caterer  will  provide  the 
supper,  and  you  '11  just  have  to  shake  hands 
with  the  guests  and  look  pleased." 

"  What  do  you  think  I  had  better  wear, 
Josiah?  " 

"  Oh,  you  must  have  a  new  dress  for  the 
occasion  !  I  like  garnet.  Get  a  garnet  silk  with 
a  good  deal  of  velvet,  and  you  '11  look  hand- 
some;"  and  Mr.  Midland  smiled  in  his  big- 


THE  HOUSE-WARMING.  1 03 

hearted  way  that  had  won  him  friends  from  his 
boyhood. 

The  new  moon  had  risen  in  the  west,  and 
the  stars  were  coming  out  brightly,  as  if  all 
nature  even  was  glad  at  Mr.  Midland's  success. 
As  they  left  the  house  the  church  bell  rang  out. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  Mr.  Midland.  "  The  min- 
ister told  me  the  other  day  that  an  evangelist 
was  coming  here.  I  forgot  all  about  it,  but  it 
might  pay  us  to  go  and  hear  him  once.  Relig- 
ion isn't  a  thing  of  emotion  to  me,  but  I  like 
to  hear  good  preaching.  I  've  never  had  any 
notion  of  joining  a  church  myself,  but  I  don't 
know  what  the  community  would  be  without 
the  churches.  Property  would  go  down  pretty 
quickly." 

The  minister,  as  was  human,  felt  the  blood 
quicken  in  his  veins  as  the  successful  rail- 
road-man and  his  wife  entered.  Not  that  they 
were  more  important  than  poor  people,  but 
he  knew  that  money  consecrated  to  good  ends 
is  a  power  almost  unlimited.  He  could  only 
silently  pray  that  some  word  would  be  uttered 
which  would  touch  Mr.  Midland's  heart. 

The  young  evangelist  preached  not  an  ex- 


IO4  THE  HOUSE-WARMING. 

traordinary  sermon,  but  a  simple  talk  upon  the 
power  of  a  good  life  —  a  life  that  came  but 
once  and  was  spent  so  quickly.  Mr.  Midland 
sat  like  one  awakened  out  of  sleep.  True,  he 
had  made  money ;  he  had  a  good  moral  char- 
acter; but  he  would  go  through  life  but  once, 
and  he  was  living  entirely  for  himself.  He 
had  never  realized  what  a  wonderful  gift  from 
heaven  this  life  is,  with  all  its  possibilities  to 
help  others,  to  make  the  poor  comfortable,  the 
sad  happy,  to  remove  the  causes  of  crime  and 
discontent.  He  seemed,  all  at  once,  to  have 
made  a  voyage  of  discovery,  and  to  have  found 
a  new  land. 

He  said  little  on  the  way  home,  except  to 
tell  Martha  that  he  felt  strangely,  and  that  she 
must  go  to  bed  and  sleep,  but  he  would  sit  up 
awhile  and  think.  Mr.  Midland  did  think  long 
and  carefully  by  the  shaded  lamp.  He  thought 
over  his  whole  past  experience.  He  had  been 
prospered,  and  he  owed  all  to  a  Higher  Power. 
And  after  he  had  thought,  he  prayed. 

In  the  morning  he  said :  "  Martha,  I  have 
given  up  the  house-warming.  I  have  decided 
to  use  the  money  to  send  a  boy  to  college  to 


THE  HOUSE-WARMING.  105 

become  a  preacher;  "  and  then  he  added,  "  for 
a  man  who  turns  the  life  of  another  heavenward 
does  the  greatest  work  in  the  world,  and  I  must 
help  to  do  the  greatest  hereafter." 

Mrs.  Midland  looked  confused  for  a  minute, 
and  then  she  said,  half  audibly,  "  I  am  very 
glad,  Josiah."  After  that  night  Mr.  Midland's 
face  took  on  an  expression  that  was  noted  till 
his  death,  years  afterward.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  talked  with  the  angels,  and  joined  a  new 
brotherhood.  The  genial  man  became  more 
genial,  more  considerate,  more  self-controlled. 
It  became  literally  true  that,  like  his  Master, 
"  he  went  about  doing  good."  Without  children 
of  his  own,  he  devoted  his  property  to  the  giving 
of  the  Gospel  to  the  people.  He  joined  heartily, 
by  voice  and  money,  in  all  that  elevated  man- 
kind. He  built  houses  for  the  poor;  he  edu- 
cated orphans ;  he  held  prayer-meetings  in 
sparsely-settled  districts ;  he  labored  for  tem- 
perance ;  he  became  the  idol  and  ideal  man  of 
the  community.  He  carried  out  his  plan  of 
using  the  house-warming  money  to  educate  a 
young  man  for  the  ministry,  and  lived  to  see 
his  gift  return  a  thousand-fold  interest. 


HANNAH    AND   JOE. 

TN  the  year  1851  Captain  Budington,  of 
•*-  Groton,  Conn.,  passed  the  winter  in  Cum- 
berland inlet,  west  of  Greenland.  Here  he 
met  Joe  and  Hannah  on  the  island  of  Kim-ick- 
su-ic,  so  called  because  its  flat  centre,  covered 
with  grass,  resembles  a  dogskin.  Hannah  was 
twelve  years  old,  dressed  in  fur  pantaloons  and 
short  fur  overdress,  and  bore  the  name  of  Too- 
koo-15-too  in  her  own  language.  Joe  was  a 
good  deal  older,  and  his  real  name  was  Ebier- 
bing. 

A  few  years  afterward  a  merchant  from  Hull, 
England,  Mr.  Bolby,  met  them  at  Cumberland 
gulf,  where  they  had  come  off  the  island  to 
trade,  and  prevailed  upon  them  to  take  the  long 
journey  to  England.  When  he  reached  home 
he  made  a  large  company,  and  in  the  presence 
of  these  guests  the  young  woman  Hannah  was 
married  to  Joe.  Mr.  Bolby  took  them  to  sev- 
eral places  in  England  and  Scotland,  and  they 

were   finally  presented  to   Queen   Victoria  and 
1 06 


HANNAH  AND  JOE.  107 

Prince  Albert.  The  Queen  was  deeply  in- 
terested in  these  people  from  the  far  North 
in  British  America,  and  asked  them  to  dine 
with  her.  If  the  Queen  was  pleased  with  the 
sincere,  uneducated,  fur-dressed  pair,  Hannah 
was  no  less  pleased  with  the  gracious  Queen  in 
her  elegant  home,  so  entirely  different  from  a 
snow  hut.  She  always  said  Victoria  was  "  very 
kind,  very  much  lady."  After  two  years  they 
returned  to  Cumberland  inlet,  and  in  1860 
Charles  F.  Hall,  the  explorer,  met  them. 

Everybody  in  both  England  and  America 
had  become  deeply  interested  in  the  fate  of  Sir 
John  Franklin.  He  had  left  England  in  1845 
with  two  ships, the  "  Erebus"  and  "Terror,"  with 
one  hundred  and  thirty-four  persons,  in  search  of 
the  North  Pole.  After  two  years  relief  parties 
were  sent  out  to  find  them.  Lady  Franklin  spent 
all  her  large  fortune  in  sending  out  ships  to 
search  for  her  missing  husband. 

Finally,  in  1850,  the  graves  of  three  of  the 
men  were  found  at  the  far  North,  on  Beechy 
island,  west  of  Hannah's  home,  so  that  the 
course  which  Franklin  took  was  known.  Four 
years  later  Dr.  Rae,  of  England,  heard  from 


108  HANNAH  AND  JOE. 

the  Eskimos  that  a  large  company  of  whitv, 
men  had  starved  on  King  William  Land,  far  to 
the  northwest  of  Baffin's  bay,  and  he  obtained 
from  the  Eskimos  many  articles  which  belonged 
to  Franklin  and  his  men. 

After  England  had  spent  over  five  million 
dollars  in  searching  for  Franklin  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  both  his  ships  had  gone  to  pieces  in 
the  ice  off  the  west  coast  of  King  William 
Land,  and  that  his  poor  men  had  starved  and 
frozen,  as  they  wandered  over  the  ice  in  a  vain 
search  for  food  or  friends.  Then  skeletons 
were  found  in  boats  or  in  snowbanks,  and  their 
boots,  watches,  and  silver  had  become  the 
property  of  the  Eskimos.  Sir  John  died  two 
years  after  the  ships  left  England,  and  must 
have  been  buried  in  the  ocean. 

Some  persons  believed  that  the  Franklin 
party  were  not  all  dead.  Charles  Francis  Hall 
was  an  engraver  at  Cincinnati,  O.  He  was 
poor,  and  with  no  influential  friends,  but  ht 
felt  that  the  Lord  had  called  him  to  the  work 
of  finding  some  of  the  Franklin  men.  He  read 
all  he  could  find  about  Arctic  life.  He  asked 
money  of  prominent  men  and  learned  societies, 


HANNAH  AND  JOE.  109 

and  finally,  after  enough  obstacles  to  dis- 
courage any  other  man,  obtained  funds  to  build 
a  boat  and  put  up  twelve  hundred  pounds 
of  food  for  the  journey.  A  New  London  firm 
gave  him  a  free  passage  on  one  of  their  ships, 
and  he  went,  in  1860,  to  the  far  North,  dis- 
covering relics  of  Sir  Martin  Frobisher's  ex- 
pedition, made  three  hundred  years  before. 
His  boat  was  lost,  so  he  had  to  return  to 
America,  and  brought  with  him  Joe  and  Han- 
nah, who  had  been  with  him  two  years,  and 
who  were  devotedly  attached  to  him. 

In  1864  Hall  started  again  with  Joe  and 
Hannah,  and  north  of  Hudson  bay  lived  five 
years  among  the  Eskimos,  eating  their  raw 
food  and  living  in  their  igloos  or  snow  huts. 
Joe,  with  great  skill,  would  kill  a  walrus,  which 
sometimes  weighs  two  thousand  pounds,  or 
would  watch  two  whole  nights  near  a  hole  in 
the  ice  where  the  seal  comes  up  to  breathe, 
that  he  might  spear  it  for  his  master. 

In  1866,  May  14,  the  only  child  of  Joe  and 
Hannah  died,  while  on  one  of  Hall's  journeys. 
According  to  custom,  the  distracted  mother  at 
the  plain  funeral  carried  the  dead  baby  in  a  fur 


I  IO  HANNAH  AND  JOE. 

blanket  suspended  from  her  neck.  Captain 
Hall  put  this  note  in  the  fur  cap  covering  the 
head  of  the  child :  "  These  are  the  mortal  re- 
mains of  little  King  William,  the  only  child  of 
Ebierbing  and  Too-koo-li-too,  the  interpreters 
of  the  lost  Franklin  Research  Expedition. 
God  hath  its  soul  now,  and  will  keep  it  from 
harm." 

Later,  Hall  visited  King  William  Land,  and 
brought  away  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
pounds  of  relics  of  Franklin  and  his  men. 
Among  these  was  a  complete  skeleton,  proved 
from  the  filling  of  a  tooth  to  be  that  of  an 
officer  of  the  ship  "  Erebus."  Hall  felt  sure  now 
that  all  the  party  were  dead.  Joe  and  Hannah 
came  back  to  the  States  with  Hall,  bringing 
a  little  three-year-old  girl  whom  they  adopted. 
They  bought  her  of  her  parents  for  a  sled. 
Hannah  named  her  Sylvia  Grinnell,  after  the 
Grinnell  family,  celebrated  for  their  gifts  tow- 
ards Arctic  research,  but  her  real  name  was 
Punna. 

Captain  Hall  made  his  third  voyage  in  the 
ship  "  Polaris  "  in  1871  for  the  North  Pole,  taking 
his  devoted  Joe  and  Hannah  and.  little  Punna. 


HANNAH  AND  JOE.  \  \  \ 

He  reached  a  higher  point  in  Smith  sound  than 
had  been  reached  by  any  other  vessel  at  that 
time,  and  anchored  in  a  harbor  protected  by 
an  iceberg  four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  and 
three  hundred  broad,  calling  the  place  Thank 
God  harbor.  In  the  autumn  of  this  year  Hall 
died  very  suddenly,  and  his  men  spent  two 
days  in  digging  a  grave  only  two  feet  deep. 
He  was  buried  at  eleven  in  the  forenoon,  but  so 
dark  was  it  in  that  high  latitude  that  lanterns 
were  carried.  Poor  Hannah  sobbed  aloud  at 
the  death  of  her  best  friend.  The  party  on 
the  "  Polaris  "  determined  to  return,  but,  being 
caught  in  the  ice,  were  obliged  to  abandon  her 
and  throw  the  provisions  and  clothing  out  on 
the  ice-floe.  In  the  midst  of  this  work,  in  the 
night,  the  ship  drifted  away,  with  fourteen  per- 
sons on  board,  leaving  on  a  piece  of  ice  one 
hundred  yards  long  and  seventy-five  broad 
Captain  Tyson  and  eight  white  men  and  nine 
Eskimos,  including  three  women  and  a  baby 
eight  weeks  old.  Hannah  and  Punna  were 
among  them. 

A    dreadful  snow-storm    came    on,   and    the 
shivering    creatures    huddled    together    under 


1 1 2  HANNAH  AND   JOE, 

some  musk-ox  skins.  Later  they  built  a  little 
house  from  materials  thrown  out  of  the  ship, 
and  floated  down  Baffin's  bay  and  Davis  strait, 
the  ice  constantly  crumbling  and  the  sea  wash- 
ing over  them.  They  used  all  their  boats  save 
one  for  fuel,  and  were  only  kept  alive  through 
the  heroic  efforts  of  Joe  and  another  Eskimo, 
Hans,  who  caught  some  seals  for  them,  which 
were  eagerly  eaten  uncooked,  without  removing 
the  hairy  skin.  They  had  only  a  little  mouldy 
bread,  and  the  sufferings  of  the  children  from 
hunger  were  painful  to  witness. 

Once,  when  nearly  all  were  dead  from  starva- 
tion, Joe  saved  them  by  killing  a  bear.  He  and 
Hannah  refused  to  leave  Captain  Tyson  and  the 
party  when  they  were  drifting  past  their  homes 
at  Cumberland  inlet,  even  when  it  was  probable 
that  the  Eskimos  themselves  must  be  used  for 
food  by  the  famished  white  men.  After  drift- 
ing one  thousand  five  hundred  miles  in  six 
months  (one  hundred  and  ninety-six  days), 
one  of  the  most  thrilling  journeys  on  record, 
the  party  were  rescued  off  the  coast  of  Labra- 
dor by  the  English  ship  "  Tigress." 

Hannah  and  Joe  settled  at  Groton  in  1873,  in 


HANNAH  AND  JOE.  \  \  3 

a  little  house  purchased  for  them  by  their  good 
friend,  "Father  Hall."  Joe  became  a  carpenter, 
and  Hannah  made  up  furs  and  other  articles  on 
her  sewing-machine. 

The  next  year  Hannah,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight,  died  of  consumption,  her  health  broken 
by  the  exposure  on  the  ice-floe.  She  had  long 
been  an  earnest  Christian,  loving  and  reading 
her  Bible  daily.  She  was  tenderly  cared  for  by 
Mrs.  Captain  Budington  and  others,  saying  at 
the  last,  "  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  and  take  thy 
poor  creature  home !  "  A  handsome  stone 
marks  the  grave  of  the  faithful  Hannah  in  the 
cemetery.  Joe  came  often  to  the  graves  on  the 
hillside  of  Groton,  and  said  at  last,  "  Hannah 
gone !  Punna  gone !  Me  go  now  again  to 
King  William  Land ;  I  have  to  fight;  me  no 
care."  He  went  with  Lieutenant  Schwatka  in 
the  Franklin  search  party,  June  19,  1878,  and 
never  returned  to  the  United  States. 


BURTON    CONE'S    REASON. 

A/EARS  after  Coleridge  wrote  the  beautiful 
-^  "  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Valley  of 
Chamouni,"  which  Felicia  Hemans  said  she 
would  give  all  her  poems  to  have  written,  — 
among  a  group  of  strangers  standing  in  awe 
before  Mont  Blanc  was  a  man  who  seemed 
forty-five,  from  his  hair  fully  half  gray  and  his 
quiet,  dignified  bearing,  though  he  must  have 
been  younger.  He  was  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts.  He  did  not  look  at  any  face  about 
him,  but  seemed  spell-bound  by  the  sublimity 
of  the  scene.  In  that  vast  mountain,  white 
with  eternal  snows,  with  the  rivers,  fed  by  the 
glaciers,  turbulent  at  its  base,  the  sun  clothing 
it  with  rainbows,  he  saw  the  same  God  who 
had  compassed  his  life,  as  the  stalwart  pines 
hedged  in  the  grand  mount  before  him. 

After  a  time,  as  through  that  as  yet  unde- 
veloped science  of  unseen  power  between  mind 
and   mind,  he    felt  a  presence.     He  was    con- 
scious of  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  conscious  that 
114 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  I  15 

somebody  he  had  known  and  loved  was  near 
him.  A  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Burton,  you  "re  the  last  man  in  all  the  world 
I  thought  of  seeing.  Ten  years  since  you 
and  I  travelled  together,  and  you  yet  on  the 
wing?  I  supposed  you  had  settled  down  to 
some  lifework,  and  was  surrounded  by  loves 
and  cares  ere  this.  You  and  I  have  stood  here 
together  before." 

The  speaker  was  a  genial,  generous  man, 
somewhat  Cone's  junior  in  look  and  manner, 
whose  sorrows,  whether  many  and  great  or  not, 
could  not  long  crush  his  happy  heart.  His 
sympathies  were  quick,  his  hopes  naturally 
bright,  and  his  nature  ardent.  The  decade 
that  had  passed  since  the  former  companion- 
ship had  aged  one  more  than  the  other.  The 
one  had  been  giving  time  and  heart  to  busi- 
ness, but  had  lived  alone,  though  a  crowded 
world  was  about  him.  The  other  had  been 
kept  young  and  fresh  by  the  love  of  a  cheerful 
wife  and  sunny  daughter,  and  the  years  had 
gone  by  rapidly  and  more  than  ordinarily  well 
stored  with  good  deeds. 

"  Come,  Burton,  I  am  tiring  of  this  road  and 


n6  BURTON  CONF:S  REASON. 

grandeur.  Let's  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  have 
one  of  the  old  friendly  talks.  Nature  has  lost 
half  its  beauty  now  that  only  one  pair  of  eyes 
sees  it  —  and  I  have  no  one  to  tell  of  the 
beautiful  or  strange  things  I  have  seen.  You 
don't  need  friendship  as  I  do.  You  are  made 
of  sterner  stuff.  You  are  Mont  Blanc  per- 
sonified." 

Cone's  mind  was  full  of  the  grandeur  before 
him,  but  his  heart,  cold  as  he  was,  was  keenly 
alive  to  the  needs  of  those  who  had  been 
friends,  so  together  they  walked  arm  in  arm  to 
their  lodgings. 

"Now,  let's  talk  over  the  ten  years,  Cone. 
Ten  years  make  a  fool  or  a  wise  man  of  a 
fellow  —  carry  him  up  to  the  gates  or  down  to 
the  depths." 

"  Tell  me  what  they  have  done  for  you, 
Marsh.  You  know  how  much  I  have  to  thank 
you  and  your  young  wife  for  the  sunshine  you 
put  into  my  life  when  we  travelled  together 
before.  She  seemed  like  a  sister  to  me.  She 
understood  me ;  and  that  is  where  most  women 
fail.  They  do  not  know  us,  or  we  do  not  know 
them,  so  our  true  natures  never  come  side  by 


BURTON   CONE'S  REASON.  II 7 

side;  but  she  seemed  to  feel  the  pulse  of  my 
life.  She  knew  just  when  I  needed  jovial 
words  and  when  I  needed  sympathy  or  quiet. 
She  had  the  tact  I  have  heard  so  often  described, 
but  seldom  seen,  and  a  pure,  good  heart  back 
of  it.  I  fear  all  hasn't  gone  right  with  you. 
Can  it  be  that  you  are  walking  alone,  like 
myself  ?  " 

Tears  gathered  in  Marsh's  eyes.  He  had 
almost  a  woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  love. 
"  It  is  n't  hard  for  you  to  stand  alone,  but  for 
me  it  is  crushing.  I  buried  my  wife  in 
England  six  months  ago.  We  came  for  her 
health,  but  she  failed  rapidly  and  went  away 
soon  after  we  arrived.  Our  little  girl  is  board- 
ing with  friends,  and  I  wander  anywhere, 
everywhere,  —  so  I  can  forget.  I  cannot  go 
back  to  America.  Nothing  binds  me  there.  I 
seem  unfit  for  labor,  and  I  am  adrift.  You 
know  she  was  like  an  anchor.  I  depended 
upon  her  judgment,  upon  her  help,  upon  her 
love.  When  a  woman  leans  entirely  upon  a 
man,  and  she  is  taken  away,  he  may  feel  as 
though  something  dear  and  beautiful  had  gone 
out  from  him ;  but  when  a  woman  has  strength 


Il8  BURTON  CONE'S  REASON. 

enough  to  be  a  companion,  a  counsellor,  in 
the  deeds  and  plans  of  every  day,  —  when  she 
is  not  a  pet  merely,  but  a  guide  to  everything 
noble,  —  when,  whether  you  will  or  not,  you 
are  kept  upon  a  plane  of  right  and  duty  and 
manhood, — what  shall  a  poor  relying  heart 
do?" 

"Would  you  wish  to  forget,  Marsh?  I 
would  put  such  a  blessing  away  in  my  heart 
and  grow  strong  from  daily  looking  at  it." 

"  I  can't  keep  it,  Cone.  I  must  get  away 
from  such  memories.  I  feel  as  though  I 
drifted  hither  and  thither,  because  there  is  no 
hand  on  the  helm.  To  remember  is  misery: 
to  forget  might  be  relief." 

"  And  yet,  do  you  not  owe  such  a  wife  a 
loving,  yearning  remembrance?  One  might 
forget  a  flower  that  blossomed  for  his  pleasure 
for  a  day  or  a  week ;  but  hold  in  grateful 
memory  a  spring  that  opened  in  the  desert  of 
a  parched  life  and  became  an  unfailing  supply. 
Memories  sometimes  are  almost  as  sweet  as 
present  realities,  and  sometimes  we  are  made 
even  stronger  by  the  one  than  by  the  other." 

"  That    may  be    good    philosophy  for  those 


BURTON   CONE'S  REASON.  119 

who  have  never  loved  and  lost.  No  one  can 
know  till  he  has  the  trial.  I  have  one  left,  I 
know,  but  that  does  not  fill  the  place  of  the 
other,  and  perchance  no  one  ever  could." 

"  You  must  go  back  with  me  to  our  father- 
land. I  am  nearly  through  my  journeying, 
for  it  seems  idle  work  for  me  now.  Besides,  I 
have  had  premonitions  that  I  should  make 
ready  for  another  journey.  You  seem  startled. 
Ten  years  have  worn  upon  me,  for  they  have 
been  years  of  constant  and  hard  labor.  I  could 
not  forget,  and  would  not;  but  hope  will  fade 
into  fruition  by  and  by." 

"  Cone,  you  ought  to  tell  me  of  your  life. 
Much  as  you  respected  my  wife,  you  never 
raised  the  curtain  from  the  scenes  which  tran- 
spired before  we  met  you.  Why  have  you 
lived  to  your  age,  and  taken  no  heart  into  your 
own  to  bless  and  hold?  Your  principles  are 
like  adamant,  and  would  keep  you  anywhere, 
but  every  man  and  woman  needs  to  have  his  or 
her  heart  uncloistered,  that  others  may  grow 
strong  and  unselfish  with  him.  This  working 
out  life's  plan  alone,  with  no  giving  or  receiv- 
ing of  loves,  seems  a  mistake  to  me.  Has  your 


I2O  BURTON   CONE'S  REASON. 

heart  anything  hidden  away  in  it,  or  are  you 
proof  to  what  you  may  think  the  weaker  acts 
of  life?" 

Cone's  face  seemed  a  little  troubled.  Not 
one  man  or  woman  out  of  ten  thousand 
reaches  the  age  of  forty  without  having  loved 
or  been  loved,  and  felt  blessed  joy  or  bitter 
pain  in  one  or  the  other.  Was  he  indeed 
different  from  the  rest  of  mankind?  He  mani- 
fested no  partiality  for  women,  except  a  defer- 
ence that  everybody  pays  to  what  it  supposes 
exalted  and  ennobling.  He  had  received 
numerous  proofs  of  their  esteem  for  him,  and 
indications  that  they  would  not  repel  his  atten- 
tions. He  was  often  the  subject  of  remark, 
from  his  striking  face  and  manner,  but  when 
all  the  queries  had  been  asked  and  unanswered 
they  said,  "  There  must  be  a  reason  for  all  this, 
and  time  will  tell  it." 

He  had  been  touched  in  heart  by  Marsh's 
utter  helplessness.  He  knew  better  than  any- 
body else  what  a  centre  she  had  been  to  his 
thought  and  his  affections.  He  sympathized 
with  him.  Perhaps  the  doors  of  his  own  inner 
sanctuary,  locked  for  a  half-score  years,  might 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  121 

swing  back  just  once,  and  let  a  weary  friend 
come  in  and  find  consolation. 

"  Come  to-night,  Marsh,  and  I  will  talk  with 
you.  Good-by  till  then." 

Alone  and  unperceived  he  stole  out  to  sit 
under  the  majestic  shadows  of  Mont  Blanc,  and 
worship.  Nobody  with  a  God  in  his  heart  ever 
stands  there  without  holding  communion  with 
Him.  No  wonder  that  the  lofty  peaks,  echoing 
canons,  and  wondrous  waterfalls  of  our  own 
country  have  written  the  names  of  more  than 
one  poet  on  the  pages  of  American  literature  ! 
Such  scenes  are  the  nurseries  in  which  great 
minds  develop.  Such  grand  handiwork  of  the 
Builder  draws  every  man  very  near  to  Him. 

Burton  Cone  had  never  forgotten  the  scenes 
through  which  he  had  passed.  Though  some 
things  had  been  laid  away  and  sealed  with  the 
seal  of  silence  for  over  a  dozen  years,  they 
were  fresh  to  him  as  though  they  had  taken 
place  that  very  morning.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  need  sympathy  as  some  need  it;  perhaps 
he  did  not  wish  to  burden  others  with  his 
feelings. 


122  BURTON  CONE'S  REASON. 

It   seemed  almost  twilight  in  the  room,  the 
lights  were  turned  down  so  low. 

"  Sit  down,  Marsh,  till  we  talk  of  the  past. 
You  have  wondered  if  there  is  anything  back  of 
this  life  you  have  known.  Aye,  much,  very 
much !  You  have  wondered  if  I  ever  loved, 
and  why  I  did  not  love  some  one  now,  when  I 
so  reverence  woman.  Away  back  in  New  Eng- 
land, in  a  little  town  near  a  beautiful  city  on 
the  Connecticut,  is  the  home  of  my  childhood. 
That  is  precious  to  me,  though  I  have  not  seen 
it  for  years.  Near  it  is  a  large  brick  house, 
painted  white,  with  long  rows  of  firs  and  pines 
leading  to  it.  It  looks  like  an  old  castle.  In 
that  home  was  a  young  girl  who  from  her 
childhood  was  my  ideal.  We  played  together 
as  children,  we  roamed  through  the  woods  and 
meadows,  we  read  and  sang  and  talked  of 
things  beyond  our  years,  because  her  nature 
held  me  above  myself.  She  was  not  beautiful 
to  others,  perchance ;  but  to  me  her  large  dark 
eyes,  high  brow,  and  glossy  hair,  with  her  quiet, 
dignified  manner,  made  her  a  queen.  She 
never  seemed  to  do  wrong.  She  had  to  ask 
no  one's  forgiveness.  She  never  made  mis- 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  12$ 

takes.  She  had  no  need  for  regrets.  Nobody 
thought  to  be  rude  or  rough  to  Mary  Fairchild, 
or  in  her  presence.  She  was  always  calm, 
always  genial  and  kind,  always  considerate. 
She  never  seemed  like  the  rest  of  us.  I  fancied 
she  had  been  sent  from  heaven  to  keep  our 
earthly  minds  and  tastes  somewhat  akin  to 
theirs.  I  always  feared  she  might  at  any  time 
take  her  departure  to  the  land  where  she 
seemed  rightly  to  belong. 

"  She  went  away  to  receive  her  education, 
and  I  studied  hard  to  make  myself,  if  possible, 
some  day  worthy  of  her.  Occasionally  she 
wrote  me,  and  those  letters  seemed  to  me  of 
peculiar  value.  I  read  each  one  over  and  over 
again,  till  I  knew  every  word  and  how  every 
letter  was  made.  The  slightest  allusion  to  friend- 
ship for  me  seemed  a  mine  of  joy,  and  I  put 
the  letter  next  my  heart  to  read  as  often  as  I 
should  get  a  little  leisure.  She  never  gave  me 
encouragement  that  she  loved  me  more  than 
others,  always  treating  us  all  in  the  same 
gracious,  kindly  way.  I  was  naturally  timid, 
and  though  I  did  not  tell  her  I  loved  her 
my  desire  to  be  in  her  company,  my  extreme 


124  BURTON   CONE'S  REASON. 

joy  when  I  met  her,  my  blushing  cheeks  and 
my  glad  eyes,  must  have  told  her  over  and  over 
again  that  I  idolized  her.  I  was  active,  ener- 
getic, ardent,  but  I  lacked  her  spirituality  and 
finer  qualities  of  soul.  She  revelled  in  all  that 
was  beautiful  and  artistic.  I  never  expected 
that  she  could  love  me  as  I  did  her.  I  thought 
her  nature  too  ethereal,  but  I  hoped  that  I 
might  sometime  live  in  her  presence  and  be 
guided  by  her  blessed  spirit  in  my  daily  life. 
"  Nothing  could  have  been  farther  removed 
from  coarseness  or  passion  than  my  love  for 
Mary ;  I  never  pressed  my  lips  to  hers.  So  I 
could  be  near  her,  hear  her  voice,  and  live 
in  the  sunshine  of  herself,  I  was  content.  I 
went  out  from  her  society  a  better  man  each 
time.  I  would  go  any  distance,  endure  any 
exposure,  so  I  might  but  feel  the  blessed  light 
of  her  eyes  come  into  mine.  I  never  joked 
with  her  as  I  might  others.  I  never  used  her 
name  before  any  person.  I  never  wrote  it 
carelessly.  Everything  pertaining  to  her  was 
sacred  as  the  heaven  which  I  sometime  ex- 
pected to  enter.  My  highest  thought  was  her 
happiness,  not  mine.  My  ambition,  my  hopes, 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  125 

my  prayers,  all  centred  in  that  one  desire  to 
walk  beside  her  in  the  beautiful  journey  of  life. 
When  any  person  coupled  my  name  with  hers 
in  pleasantry  I  felt  as  though  they  had  touched 
a  name  that  was  hallowed,  and  changed  the 
subject.  I  longed  to  be  constantly  in  her 
presence,  yet  dared  not  trouble  her  too  much ; 
so  between  desire  to  hover  near  and  fear  of 
being  an  annoyance  rather  than  a  joy  my  soul 
was  constantly  harassed.  I  had  often  pledged 
myself  to  ask  her  to  accept  my  homage,  and 
though  I  had  means  and  social  position  and 
education,  everything  seemed  unworthy  of  her. 
What  if  she  refused  to  be  my  guide  forever  ? 
Life  then  would  be  worse  than  useless ;  so, 
hoping  and  praying,  I  waited,  and  my  worship 
grew  as  the  months  went  by.  Every  flower 
that  she  loved  I  pressed  and  laid  away  in  the 
books  I  had  seen  her  read.  Every  kindly  word 
she  gave  me  made  me  joyful  for  days.  Every 
touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  me  with  delight,  and 
I  lived  over  the  bliss  a  thousand  times  in 
memory.  Once,  I  remember,  when  I  gave  her 
a  picture  of  myself,  and  she  looked  at  it  long 
and  earnestly  I  thought,  and  her  dark  hair 


126  BURTON   CONE'S  REASON. 

touched  mine,  I  was  too  happy  for  words  to 
express  it. 

"  Other  young  men  called  upon  her,  and,  like 
myself,  showed  her  the  deference  that  belonged 
to  a  pure,  beautiful  woman,  girl  though  she 
was  in  years.  Among  them  was  a  noble  young 
man,  the  perfection  of  manly  grace  and  the 
embodiment  of  manly  virtues.  Alfred  Trum- 
bull  was  a  preacher,  a  genial,  earnest,  eloquent 
young  man,  as  spiritual  as  herself.  I  had  met 
him  there  and  had  learned  to  love  him.  He 
admired  her,  we  all  plainly  saw,  but  she  treated 
him  as  the  rest,  with  a  cordiality  that  was 
blended  with  reserve  and  that  kept  us  all  re- 
moved just  far  enough  to  worship  her. 

"  Weeks  went  by.  I  was  growing  wretched. 
I  was  coming  to  know  how  entirely  dependent 
I  was  upon  her  for  happiness.  If  a  day  passed 
by  and  I  did  not  see  her,  it  was  a  lost  day.  I 
must  tell  her  and  have  her  all  my  own.  Oh, 
Marsh,  those  were  glad  days,  after  all,  —  when 
I  could  see  her,  if  no  more, —  but  God  and 
time  shape  things  differently  from  what  we 
will! 

"  It  was  just  such  a  night  as  this.      I  remem- 


BURTON  CONKS  REASON. 

her  her  so  plainly  —  how  I  stood  by  the  gate  and 
watched  the  shadows  of  the  pines  flicker  on  the 
walk,  and,  man  though  I  was,  trembled  to  take 
the  final  step.  She  met  me  so  cordially,  more 
than  was  her  wont,  I  thought.  She  was  so 
lovely  on  that  calm  summer  evening;  so  doubly 
frail,  too,  that  my  solicitude  for  her  kept  pace 
with  my  love.  She  was  alone.  With  no  sound 
save  the  rustle  of  the  pines,  and  no  one  to  hear 
save  God  and  her,  I  told  her  all  my  heart.  I 
told  her  how  I  worshipped  her  with  all  the 
strength  of  my  being.  I  told  her  how  I  would 
struggle  to  the  end  of  life  to  make  myself 
worthy  of  her. 

"  She  waited  a  full  minute  before  she  an- 
swered me.  In  that  minute  it  seemed  as  though 
my  reason  would  give  way.  She  was  so  white 
with  the  moonlight  streaming  in  upon  her,  as 
she  put  her  hand  in  mine  and  said,  with  an 
irrepressible  tenderness,  '  Burton  '  (and  nobody 
else  spoke  my  name  as  she  did),  '  Burton,  I 
have  promised  to  help  Alfred  Trumbull  win 
souls.' 

At  first  I  was  dumb;  then  I  buried  my  face 
in  my  hands  and  groaned  aloud,  then  I  wept 


128  BURTON  CONKS  REASON. 

like  a  child  that  cannot  be  comforted.  Oh, 
Marsh,  there  is  nothing  that  bends  a  man's 
soul  like  that !  I  felt  alone  —  no  support,  no 
guide,  no  love,  no  hope.  Life  was  worse  than 
a  blank ;  a  dull,  dread  certainty  of  sorrow.  It 
would  be  torture  to  die  if  death  were  to  remove 
me  from  her  sight  —  it  would  be  torture  to  live 
and  never  have  her  love  or  presence.  Those 
were  bitter  days,  full  of  the  depths  of  sorrow. 
Those  days  made  me  grow  old  a  score  of  years. 
I  was  never  young  afterward. 

"  At  last,  when  I  could  command  myself,  I 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  love  her  till  my  life 
went  out.  If  any  one  could  win  her  instead  of 
me,  I  was  thankful  to  have  it  one  so  good  as 
Alfred  Trumbull.  I  conquered  self.  I  found 
my  highest  happiness  was  still  to  see  her 
happy.  Sometimes  when  I  visited  her  the  old 
love,  the  yearning  to  claim  her  for  myself, 
would  sweep  over  me  till  my  head  grew  dizzy 
and  my  heart  sank  within  me,  and  then  my 
better  nature  said :  '  Rejoice  in  her  joy,  and  be 
content  only  to  love.' 

"  I  came  at  last  to  be  resigned  —  yes,  happy 
in  my  idol-worship.  From  her  I  could  hope 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  1 29 

for  nothing  but  kindness  and  tenderness,  but  I 
could  never  love  any  other.  The  time  drew 
near  when  she  and  Alfred  Trumbull  were  to 
commence  their  grand  life-work.  Suddenly  his 
health  failed.  She  went  to  him  —  she  cared 
for  him  day  and  night  with  the  same  intensity 
of  love  that  I  had  given  her.  It  could  not 
arrest  disease.  He  longed  for  returning  health, 
because  they  would  have  been  so  happy  and 
congenial  in  their  love  and  work ;  but  one  day 
in  early  spring  he  died  in  her  arms,  and  was 
laid  away  among  the  first  flowers,  to  rest  from 
his  labors. 

"  I  never  saw  a  life  so  blighted  as  hers.  Her 
whole  heart  lay  beside  his  in  the  grave.  She 
lost  all  interest  in  life.  She  grew  quiet  and  sad 
and  more  ethereal.  She  never  mentioned  his 
name,  but  we  knew  she  longed  to  live  with  him, 
even  though  she  must  pass  through  the  valley 
of  the  shadow. 

"  Against  all  my  struggling  I  found  my  old 
desire  to  claim  her  coming  back  into  my  soul. 
I  showed  her  all  the  delicate  yet  unobtrusive 
kindness  possible.  Her  very  sorrow  made  her 
unspeakably  dear. 


130  BURTON  CONE'S  REASON. 

"After  Alfred  had  been  in  heaven  a  year, 
and  knowing  that  she  loved  no  one  else,  I  told 
her  again  the  old  burden  of  my  heart.  She 
seemed  moved  to  pity  as  she  laid  her  hand  on 
mine,  just  as  she  did  once  before,  and  said  in 
tones  I  shall  never  forget,  'Burton,  I  am 
Alfred's !  ' 

"I  lived  over  again  the  old  days  of  torture, 
and  again  conquered  self  to  minister  to  her 
happiness.  I  should  have  died  if  I  could  not 
have  loved  her,  and  I  was  almost  happy  that 
she  did  not  deny  me  this.  I  gathered  beautiful 
and  rare  things  for  her,  and  in  all  ways  made 
her  life  less  sad,  if  possible.  I  must  have  her 
to  care  for  and  love  and  serve,  and  again  I  laid 
my  affection  at  her  feet.  With  the  same  sad 
smile  she  had  borne  for  three  years,  she  said, 
looking  down  at  the  mourning  robes  she  had 
worn  for  him,  '  Burton,  I  am  Alfred's  still ;  but 
if  I  can  make  your  life  any  happier  I  will  be 
your  wife  ! ' 

"  Those  words  staggered  me.  I  had  not 
dared  hope  for  this,  though  I  prayed  for  it. 
Joy  seemed  to  take  away  my  senses ;  and  see- 
ing me  so  beside  myself  the  old  look  came 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  131 

back  once  or  twice  to  her  face.  I  was  as  one 
who,  shipwrecked  in  mid-ocean,  after  clinging 
for  days  to  a  floating  plank,  at  last  picked  up 
by  a  stray  ship,  is  helpless  through  joy  and 
gratitude.  I  was  more  dead  than  alive  with  my 
wealth  of  happiness.  Mary  and  I  were  made 
one.  Marsh,  how  I  live  over  again  those  beau- 
tiful days.  I  used  to  look  at  your  pretty  wife 
beside  you  as  we  journeyed,  and  think  of  my 
precious  Mary. 

"  My  cup  of  joy  was  full  to  the  brim.  She 
accepted  my  homage,  and  was  grateful.  I 
spared  no  pains  to  make  her  life  complete.  To 
have  her  in  my  home,  to  have  the  blessed  in- 
fluence of  her  presence  evening  after  evening, 
was  the  crowning  joy  of  a  man  who  had  loved 
for  years  in  silence  and  unreturned  affection. 

"  I  was  so  entranced  with  my  joy  that  an- 
other summer  had  come  round  again  before  I 
began  to  realize  that  she  was  fully  mine,  and 
then  the  next  winter  flew  so  rapidly,  and  a  little 
son  came  into  the  household.  We  were  both 
very  grateful  —  I  all  the  more  because  I 
thought  it  might  fill  Mary's  heart  something 
as  the  old  love  had  done. 


132  BURTON  CONE'S  REASON. 

"  I  watched  her  cheeks  grow  brighter  as  she 
fondled  the  boy,  whom  I  named  Alfred  for  her 
sake.  They  were  so  beautiful  in  my  home, 
mother  and  child.  I  worked  with  redoubled 
energy,  and  well  nigh  forgot  that  there  was  any 
heaven  beyond,  my  joy  was  so  complete  below. 

"  Spring  came  and  I  gathered  wild  flowers  to 
wreathe  the  brows  of  both.  One  day,  while 
absent  from  home,  a  message  came  for  me 
that  my  wife  was  ill  and  desired  me  to  come. 
I  grew  palsied  with  fear.  I  hastened  home  to 
find  her  just  able  to  speak  to  me.  She  had  had 
a  violent  haemorrhage  of  the  lungs.  I  was  wild. 
I  knelt  before  her,  and  clasping  her  in  my 
arms  begged  her  not  to  die,  but  live  for  my 
sake  and  her  boy's.  She  put  her  white  arm 
about  my  neck,  drawing  me  to  his  little  face 
and  hers,  as  she  said  faintly,  '  Burton,  keep  the 
darling  child,  who  is  ours,  —  but  I  —  I  am  Al- 
fred's !  '  — and  was  gone. 

"  For  months  I  did  not  know  what  happened. 
All  was  a  blank.  My  boy  died  before  I  came 
to  myself,  and  I  was  alone  again  in  the  world. 
I  travelled  till  my  health  permitted  work,  and 
then  I  labored  incessantly. 


BURTON  CONE'S  REASON.  133 

"  I  love  Mary  now  as  I  loved  her  so  long  ago. 
No  other  can  ever  fill  her  place.  She  is  as 
much  mine  to  love  as  ever.  All  this  has  whit- 
ened my  hair,  you  see.  I  must  lock  up  my 
heart  again,  lest  the  world  look  in  upon  my 
idols.  Do  you  see  that  I  have  reason  for  not 
loving  again?  " 

Marsh's  head  was  bowed.  He  loved  Cone  as 
a  brother,  and  he  had  suffered  all  this  and  loved 
on,  and  was  brave  and  strong. 

"  Let  us  take  my  little  girl  and  go  back  to 
yours  and  Mary's  home,"  said  Marsh. 

"  Yes,  and  Mary  has  an  only  sister  strangely 
like  your  wife.  You  need  another  heart  to  lean 
upon.  Your  nature  is  different  from  mine. " 

Not  many  years  after  Marsh  had  taken  the 
sister  to  be  a  mother  to  his  pretty  daughter,  and 
Burton  Cone,  leaving  his  property  to  this  little 
one,  had  been  laid  to  rest  by  the  side  of  Mary. 


UNSUITABLE. 

"  TT  never  will  happen,"  said  Jane  Holcomb 
•*-  to  her  sister  Nancy,  as  they  sat  together 
before  an  open  fire.  "  Justus  is  too  bright  a 
young  man  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  nearly 
twice  his  own  age.  Think  of  our  educating  our 
only  nephew  at  a  most  expensive  college,  having 
all  our  hopes  centred  in  his  future  prominence, 
and  then  have  him  make  an  unsuitable  mar- 
riage !  " 

"  But  we  have  never  seen  this  woman  he 
seems  to  love,"  said  Nancy  quietly.  "  Perhaps 
we  should  like  her.  I  think  she  must  have 
some  admirable  qualities,  or  Justus  would  never 
be  fond  of  her.  Besides,  he  is  a  favorite  with 
ladies,  and  could  marry  surely  a  pretty  girl  of 
his  own  age." 

Jane  and  Nancy  Holcomb  were  sisters,  well- 
to-do  in  the  world,  very  necessary  to  each 
other,  but  not  especially  necessary  to  the  rest 
of  the  community.  Nancy  was  half  an  invalid, 
who  repaid  the  care  of  her  sister  with  a  nearly 
134 


UNSUITABLE.  135 

perfect  affection.  She  would  have  made  a 
lovely  wife  had  she  been  married  some  years 
before. 

It  was  fortunate  that  Jane  had  never  married. 
Her  continual  worry  lest  a  particle  of  dust 
adhere  to  table  or  chair,  her  constant  pick- 
ing up  of  book,  or  shawl,  or  gloves,  if  any- 
thing were  left  for  a  moment  out  of  place, 
would  have  made  her  an  annoyance  to  any  man 
who  wished  to  enjoy  his  home.  If  a  picture 
had  been  painted  of  Jane  Holcomb,  it  would 
not  have  been  complete  without  a  broom  in 
her  hand.  There  was  one  good  servant  in  the 
house  who  kept  things  reasonably  neat,  but 
Jane  was  forever  cleaning.  If  she  had  married, 
and  had  been  the  mother  of  children,  probably 
she  would  have  been  less  fussy,  and  a  pleas- 
anter  woman  to  live  with. 

Both  women  idolized  the  bright  nephew, 
Justus,  who  loved  his  aunts  in  the  abstract, 
but  usually  kept  as  far  away  from  Aunt  Jane's 
broom  as  possible. 

He  was  a  handsome  young  fellow,  cheery, 
cordial,  earnest,  sympathetic,  and  withal  pos- 
sessed of  excellent  common-sense.  He  had 


136  UNSUITABLE. 

just  graduated  from  a  medical  school,  and  was 
coming  home  for  a  visit  to  the  aunts.  Jane 
swept  and  dusted  more  than  ever,  till  the 
carpets  and  furniture  would  have  protested,  if 
that  were  possible.  Nancy  grew  fresher  and 
better  in  health  from  the  expected  arrival. 

Finally  the  young  man  came,  and  was  kissed 
and  petted  as  young  men  are  apt  to  be  by 
women  older  than  themselves.  Aunt  Jane 
looked  him  over  from  head  to  foot.  Yes,  he 
was  clean  and  attractive,  even  to  her  practised 
eye. 

"  Now,  Justus,"  she  said,  as  they  were  sitting 
by  the  open  fire  after  supper,  "  tell  your  aunts 
about  the  love  matter  which  we  hear  of.  I 
think  this  lady  is  a  little  older  than  you."  Jane 
controlled  herself  and  became  diplomatic,  be- 
cause a  young  man  cannot  usually  be  driven, 
but  must  be  gently  led. 

"  If  you  mean  Miss  Watterson  —  yes,  she  is  a 
charming  woman.  She  is  thirty-five,  just  ten 
years  older  than  I.  I  confess  she  attracts  me 
more  than  any  of  the  girls  of  my  own  age.  She 
is  not  handsome,  but  very  intelligent,  has  read 
widely,  and  is  a  noble  woman." 


UNSUITABLE.  137 

"  But  you  surely  would  be  the  subject  of 
much  remark  in  society  if  you  married  her. 
And  we  are  so  proud  of  you,  Justus,  we  natu- 
rally wish  you  could  marry  rich,  and  some  one 
who  could  help  you  in  your  profession.  You 
know  a  woman  can  help  to  make  her  husband 
popular  or  unpopular." 

"I  know  it,  aunt;  but,  after  all,  I  need  the 
right  kind  of  companionship  when  I  marry.  I 
have  not  decided  the  matter  yet,  and  perhaps  I 
shall  grow  wiser." 

"  You  must  not  forget  also,  Justus,  that  as  a 
rule  a  woman  grows  old  faster  than  a  man,  or 
she  used  to.  I  cannot  say  that  she  does  exactly 
in  this  new  age,  when  American  men  are  killing 
themselves  in  business,  and  the  women  are  liv- 
ing in  luxury.  But  when  you  are  forty-five 
and  in  your  prime,  your  wife  will  be  fifty-five ; 
and  the  disparity  will  be  more  apparent  then 
than  now.  Besides,  you  will  see  so  many  at- 
tractive faces  in  your  profession." 

"  That  would  not  influence  me,  Aunt  Jane. 
If  I  loved  her  once,  I  should  hope  to  be  man 
enough  to  love  her  always.  But  I  will  wait 
awhile  before  I  "  — 


138  UNSUITABLE. 

"  That  is  right,"  said  Nancy;  "you  know  we 
shall  make  you  our  heir,  that  is,  sister  Jane  will, 
and  we  want  you  to  be  a  leader  socially  and  in 
your  profession.  You  know  men  have  such  a 
wide  sphere  of  influence.  All  our  lives  centre 
in  you." 

"  Don't  build  too  much  upon  my  future,  Aunt 
Nancy,  though  I  will  do  my  best." 

"Do  you  correspond  with  Miss  Watterson?" 
said  Jane  half  hesitatingly. 

"  We  have  done  so,  but  we  have  discontinued 
it,  as  I  am  sure  she  thinks  the  difference  in  our 
ages  a  possible  obstacle  to  our  future  happiness." 

"  Well,  she  is  a  wise  woman  not  to  let  a  boy 
be  captured  even  in  accord  with  his  own  wishes. 
Why  it  is  that  young  men  so  often  like  older 
women  I  'm  sure  I  can't  tell." " 

"  Because  they  are  natural  and  not  simper- 
ing, feel  an  interest  and  dare  to  show  it,  are 
vivacious  without  flippancy,  and  usually  well- 
enough  read  to  be  companionable  to  an  edu- 
cated man.  You  know,  Aunt  Jane,  a  man 
does  n't  want  simply  a  pretty  face  to  look  on 
forever.  He  must  have  something  besides  a 
vine  nowadays." 


UNSUITABLE.  1 39 

"  Well,  tell  us  about  Miss  Watterson?  " 

"  She  has  travelled  abroad,  plays  delightfully, 
loves  to  do  charitable  work,  has  tact  enough  to 
know  when  to  talk  and  when  to  be  silent,  likes 
to  look  well,  but  does  not  spend  all  her  time  in 
dress  as  do  some  whom  I  know,  whether  their 
fathers  can  afford  it  or  not,  and  does  n't  seem  to 
make  any  especial  effort  to  win  my  affections, 
but  is  thoroughly  appreciative." 

"  Why  has  n't  she  married  before  this?  Been 
in  love  and  been  disappointed,  I  warrant." 

"  That  I  don't  know.  She  has  never  told 
me.  I  suppose,  like  yourself,  Aunt  Jane,  she 
has  n't  found  a  man  good  enough." 

Jane  Holcomb  smiled  in  a  pleased  kind  of 
way  at  this  delicate  allusion  to  her  superior 
judgment. 

"  Well,  Justus,  I  wish  you  would  promise  me 
that  you  won't  write  to  Miss  Watterson  for  one 
year,  and  by  that  time  you  will  probably  have 
found  some  one  more  suitable  to  your  age." 

"  I  promise,  but  I  shall  be  so  busy  with  my 
profession  that  I  fear  no  other  lady  will  com- 
mand my  time." 

When  Justus  departed  Jane  kissed  him  with 


140  UNSUITABLE. 

not  only  maternal  fondness,  but  with  that 
woman's  pride  that  feels  she  has  for  once  cir- 
cumvented an  attractive  woman,  doubtless  in 
love  with  a  bright  and  handsome  nephew. 

"  One  year  will  fix  matters,"  she  said  to 
Nancy,  after  Justus  had  gone.  "  Few  loves  can 
bear  such  a  silence  as  that." 

"  I  fear  Justus  will  be  lonesome,"  said  Nancy, 
who  still  had  a  little  longing  in  her  heart  that 
the  youth  might  have  the  woman  of  his  choice, 
even  though  "  unsuitable,"  as  Jane  had  said. 
There  was  a  touch  of  romance  in  Nancy  that 
would  have  made  her  an  interesting  woman  if 
circumstances  had  been  permitted  to  develop 
her. 

Long  letters  came  from  Justus.  He  was 
busy  and  successful.  Jane  was  happy,  but 
Nancy  thought  she  detected  a  depressed  feeling 
in  the  letters.  He  was  lonely,  of  course.  Who 
can  enjoy  the  companionship  of  a  cultivated 
and  womanly  woman  and  not  miss  it?  Who 
that  has  had  one  sincere  affection,  especially  if 
it  have  something  of  reverence  in  it,  can  readily 
supply  its  place  with  another? 

One    morning,  after   a   year   had    passed,     a 


UNSUITABLE.  141 

square  envelope  came,  and  a  full,  kind,  but  de- 
cided letter.  It  contained  cards  announcing 
the  marriage  of  Justus  Holcomb  and  Miss 
Watterson.  What  society  would  say,  what  even 
his  good  aunts  would  say,  had  been  weighed  in 
the  balance  and  been  found  wanting. 

Jane  was  sadly  disappointed.  "  Another  in- 
stance of  a  woman's  power,"  she  said.  "  I  never 
knew  a  woman  that  could  n't  do  what  she  set 
out  to  do,  if  a  man's  heart  were  at  stake.  I 
feared  it  all  the  while.  Men  will  do  such  fool- 
ish things.  I  fear  Justus  will  regret,  but  he  is 
so  manly  he  will  never  say  so." 

"  But  she  may  be  better  for  him  than  a  fly- 
away-girl," Nancy  suggested.  "  I  hope  it  will 
turn  out  well.  We  must  be  kind  to  them  and 
write  them  to  come  to  see  us." 

Jane  set  the  house  in  order,  and  swept  and 
dusted,  and  made  herself  ready  for  the  inevi- 
table. When  the  visit  was  made  and  Justus  was 
found  to  be  happy  with  a  wife  ten  years  his 
senior,  Jane  was  in  a  measure  reconciled.  "  It 
could  have  been  worse,"  she  said  to  Nancy. 
"  She  seems  a  very  clever  person." 

"I  like  her,"   said  Nancy;  "she  has  a  very 


142  UNSUITABLE. 

sweet  smile,  and  this  makes  even  a  plain  face 
attractive.  I  don't  believe  she  tried  to  get  him, 
for  he  seems  more  in  love  than  she  does." 

"  Ah !  that 's  a  woman's  skill  in  covering," 
said  Jane.  "  But  men  will  be  foolish,  I  sup- 
pose, till  the  end  of  the  world." 


PLAYING   WITH   HEARTS. 

OEVERAL  instances,  showing  the  results  of 
^  playing  with  hearts,  have  come  under  my 
notice,  which  have  emphasized  in  my  mind  the 
danger  of  being  careless  in  such  matters. 

That  it  is  natural  for  young  men  to  admire 
and  love  young  women  goes  without  saying. 
As  well  argue  that  we  must  not  love  flowers 
and  music  and  sunlight,  as  to  say  one  must  not 
love  the  beauty  and  grace  and  sweetness  of 
young  womanhood. 

A  home  to  many  if  not  most  young  men 
means  all  that  is  restful  and  delightful ;  a  place 
for  comfort  after  the  toil  of  the  day ;  a  place  of 
companionship  with  some  one  whose  interests 
are  identical  with  his,  and  whose  tastes  are  con- 
genial to  his  own.  He  does  not  wait,  as  does  a 
woman,  to  see  if  love  be  reciprocal.  He  loves, 
and  hopes  for  and  asks  for  a  return. 

The  girl  is  apt  to  be  less  impulsive.  She,  or 
her  mother  for  her,  is  perhaps  worldly  wise, 
and  considers  well  whether  the  man  can  sup- 
US 


144  PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS. 

port  her,  and  whether  he  will  probably  make 
her  happy.  She  accepts  the  attentions  of  one 
or  a  dozen,  and  decides  among  them.  This  is 
right  according  to  our  modern  society,  but  she 
too  often  forgets  whether  she  is  giving  pain 
needlessly. 

It  is  too  much  the  fashion  to  argue  that  men 
are  not  deeply  touched  in  such  matters ;  that, 
full  of  business  as  they  are,  a  refusal  is  easily 
borne,  and  another  love  takes  the  place. 

True,  we  read  in  the  daily  press  quite  often 
of  a  suicide  resulting  from  a  rebuff  or  a  broken 
promise,  but  we  seem  to  forget,  unless  per- 
chance it  touches  our  own  home  circle,  and 
then  the  mother's  heart  breaks  for  her  tenderly 
reared  son  or  daughter. 

I  believe  the  history  of  the  world  shows  that 
men  love  deeply,  and  with  an  affection  as  last- 
ing as  that  of  women.  Who  can  ever  forget 
the  undying  affection  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  for 
fair  young  Margaret?  He  met  and  loved  her 
at  nineteen,  and  for  six  years  worked  at  his  law 
drudgery,  looking  forward  to  a  happy  union 
with  her.  He  said  to  a  friend,  "  It  was  a  proud 
night  with  me  when  I  first  found  that  a  pretty 


PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS.  145 

young  woman  could  think  it  worth  while  to  sit 
and  talk  with  me  hour  after  hour,  in  a  corner  of 
the  ball-room,  while  all  the  world  were  caper- 
ing in  our  view." 

As  his  first  year's  practice  brought  him  but 
$125,  his  second  $290,  and  his  third  $420, 
the  young  lady  counselled  waiting  for  better 
days. 

Two  years  later  Margaret  was  married  to  the 
eldest  son  of  a  baronet,  afterward  Sir  William 
Forbes,  and  died  thirteen  years  after  her  mar- 
riage. The  cause  of  her  change  of  mind  is 
not  known. 

At  first  Scott  felt  that  he  had  been  wronged, 
but  this  feeling  against  Margaret  soon  sub- 
sided, and  was  replaced  by  an  unchangeable 
affection.  She  became  the  heroine  of 
"  Rokeby  "  and  of  "  Woodstock." 

Thirty  years  later,  when  Europe  and 
America  were  filled  with  praise  of  Scott,  he 
met  the  mother  of  his  early  love.  He  writes 
in  his  diary,  after  the  meeting: 

"  I  went  to  make  a  visit,  and  fairly  softened 
myself  like  an  old  fool,  with  recalling  old 
stories  till  I  was  fit  for  nothing  but  shedding 


146  PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS. 

tears  and  repeating  verses  for  the  whole  night. 
This  is  sad  work.  The  very  grave  gives  up 
its  dead,  and  time  rolls  back  thirty  years  to 
add  to  my  perplexities.  I  don't  care.  I 
begin  to  grow  case-hardened,  and,  like  a  stag 
turning  at  bay,  my  naturally  good  temper 
grows  fierce  and  dangerous.  Yet  what  a 
romance  to  tell,  and  told,  I  fear,  it  will  one 
day  be.  And  then  my  three  years  of  dream- 
ing and  my  two  years  of  awakening  will  be 
chronicled,  doubtless.  But  the  dead  will  feel 
no  pain." 

When  he  visited  St.  Andrews  he  recalled 
how  thirty-four  years  before  he  had  carved 
her  name  in  runic  characters  on  the  turf  beside 
the  castle  gate,  and  asked  himself  why,  at  fifty- 
six,  that  name  "  should  still  agitate  his  heart." 

I  never  read  of  stern  and  fearless  Andrew 
Jackson  without  recalling  his  devoted  love  for 
Rachel  Robards.  With  the  world  he  was 
thought  to  be  domineering  and  harsh,  and  was 
often  profane ;  but  with  her  he  was  patient, 
gentle,  and  deferential.  Having  no  children, 
they  adopted  her  nephew  when  but  a  few  days 
old.  When  Jackson  conquered  at  New  Orleans 


PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS.  147 

and  young  ladies  strewed  flowers  along  the 
path  of  the  hero,  to  have  the  commendation 
of  Rachel  was  more  than  that  of  all  the  world 
beside.  When  he  was  elected  President  she 
said,  "  Well,  for  Mr.  Jackon's  sake  I  am  glad ; 
for  my  own  part  I  never  wished  it." 

Earnest  in  her  religious  convictions,  he  built 
a  small  brick  church  for  her  in  the  Hermitage 
grounds,  that  she  might  gather  her  neighbors 
and  servants  about  her  for  worship.  Mrs. 
Jackson  died  suddenly  just  after  her  husband's 
election  to  the  presidency.  He  could  not 
believe  that  she  was  dead.  When  they 
brought  a  table  to  lay  her  body  upon  it,  he 
said  tenderly  in  a  choking  voice,  "  Spread  four 
blankets  upon  it.  If  she  does  come  to,  she 
will  lie  so  hard  upon  the  table." 

All  night  long  he  sat  beside  the  form  of  his 
beloved  Rachel,  often  feeling  of  her  heart  and 
pulse.  In  the  morning  he  was  wholly  incon- 
solable, and  when  he  found  that  she  was  really 
dead  the  body  could  scarcely  be  forced  from 
his  arms.  He  prepared  a  tomb  for  her  like  an 
open  summer-house,  and  buried  her  under  the 
white  dome  supported  by  marble  pillars. 


148  PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS. 

While  Jackson  lived  he  wore  her  miniature 
constantly  about  his  neck,  and  every  night  laid 
it  open  beside  her  prayer-book  at  his  bedside. 
Her  face  was  the  last  thing  upon  which  his  eyes 
rested  before  he  slept,  and  the  first  thing  upon 
which  his  eyes  opened  in  the  morning,  through 
those  eight  years  at  the  White  House.  He 
made  his  will  bequeathing  all  his  property  to 
his  adopted  son,  because,  said  he,  "If  she  were 
alive  she  would  wish  him  to  have  it  all,  and  to 
me  her  wish  is  law." 

Two  days  before  he  died  he  said,  "  Heaven 
will  be  no  heaven  to  me  if  I  do  not  find  my 
wife  there."  He  used  to  say,  "  All  I  have 
achieved  —  fame,  power,  everything  —  would  I 
exchange,  if  she  could  be  restored  to  me  for  a 
moment." 

Washington  Irving  cherished  forever  the 
memory  of  Matilda  Hoffman,  who  died  at  the 
age  of  seventeen.  He  could  never  hear  her 
name  mentioned  afterward.  After  his  death  a 
package  was  found  marked  "Private  Mems." 
In  a  faded  manuscript  of  his  own  writing  were 
a  lovely  miniature  of  Matilda  and  a  braid  of 
fair  hair.  For  years  Irving  kept  her  Bible  and 


PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS,  149 

prayer-book  under  his  pillow,  and  to  the  end 
of  his  life  these  were  always  carried  with  him 
on  his  journeys. 

In  the  faded  manuscript  one  reads : 
"  The  ills  that  I  have  undergone  in  this  life 
have  been  dealt  out  to  me  drop  by  drop,  and  I 
have  tasted  all  their  bitterness.  I  saw  her  fade 
rapidly  away:  beautiful  and  more  beautiful, 
and  most  angelical  to  the  last. 

"  I  seemed  to  care  for  nothing ;  the  world  was 
a  blank  to  me.  I  abandoned  all  thought  of  the 
law.  I  went  into  the  country,  but  could  not 
bear  the  solitude,  yet  could  not  endure  society. 
.  .  .  I  seemed  to  drift  about  without  aim  or 
object,  at  the  mercy  of  every  breeze ;  my  heart 
wanted  anchorage.  I  was  naturally  susceptible, 
and  tried  to  form  other  attachments,  but  my 
heart  would  not  hold  on ;  it  would  continually 
recur  to  what  it  had  lost ;  and  whenever  there 
was  a  pause  in  the  hurry  of  novelty  and  excite- 
ment I  would  sink  into  dismal  dejection.  For 
years  I  could  not  talk  on  the  subject  of  this 
hopeless  regret;  I  could  not  even  mention  her 
name ;  but  her  image  was  continually  before 
me,  and  I  dreamed  of  her  incessantly." 


150  PLAYING    WITH  HEARTS. 

"  For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old; 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould, 
And  will  not  cool 
Until  the  heart  itself  is  cold 
In  Lethe's  pool." 

The  memory  of  Ann  Rutledge  never  faded 
from  the  heart  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  Years 
after  her  death  he  was  heard  to  say,  "  My  heart 
lies  buried  in  the  grave  of  that  girl.  I  can 
never  be  reconciled  to  have  the  snow,  rains, 
and  storms  beat  upon  her  grave." 

Gruff  Samuel  Johnson  worked  in  his  garret, 
a  most  inconvenient  room,  after  his  "  Tetty  " 
died,  because,  said  he,  "  In  that  room  I  never 
saw  Mrs.  Johnson."  Her  wedding-ring  was 
placed  in  a  little  box,  and  tenderly  kept  till  his 
death. 

Michael  Angelo's  devotion  to  Vittoria  Col- 
onna  will  be  told,  perhaps,  even  after  the  won- 
derful statues  of  Day  and  Night  are  lost  or 
destroyed.  "  He  bore  such  a  love  to  her," 
said  his  pupil  Condivi  "  that  I  remember  to 
have  heard  him  say  that  he  grieved  at  nothing 
so  much  as  that  when  he  went  to  see  her  pass 
from  this  life  he  had  not  kissed  her  brow  or  her 


PLA  YING    WITH  HEAR  TS.  151 

face,  as  he  kissed  her  hand.  After  her  death  he 
frequently  stood  trembling  and  as  if  insensible." 

All  lovers  of  art  know  of  Saskia,  whose  life 
was  to  Rembrandt  like  the  transcendent  light 
he  threw  over  his  pictures ;  whose  death  left 
him  forever  in  the  shadow  of  shadows. 

If  men  give  such  affection  as  these  men  gave, 
—  and  tens  of  thousands  do,  —  then  the  affec- 
tion is  worth  the  most  careful  consideration ; 
accepted,  if  possible,  with  gratitude  that  one 
has  been  thought  worthy  of  homage ;  refused, 
if  necessary,  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and 
kindness. 

Young  women  sometimes,  perhaps  because 
of  youth,  do  not  realize  the  far-reaching  in- 
fluence of  what  the  world  is  pleased  to  jest 
about  as  "  love  affairs." 

An  acquaintance  of  mine,  pretty,  intelligent, 
and  reared  by  a  Christian  mother,  became 
engaged  to  two  young  men  at  the  same  time. 
One  of  course  was  refused,  with,  to  him,  bit- 
ter heartache.  She  married  the  other,  led  a 
wretched  life  with  him,  and  finally  was  divorced. 

Another  received  for  years  the  attention  of 
a  worthy  and  wealthy  young  man.  Another 


I  5  2  PLA  J  'ING    WITH  HEAR  TS. 

young  man  visited  her,  for  whom  she  possibly 
had  a  preference.  Both  offered  themselves  to 
her,  and  both  were  accepted,  she  doubtless 
hoping  to  choose  later  the  one  who  pleased 
her  best.  Both  discovered  her  plan,  were  in- 
dignant, and  left  her  to  make  other  conquests. 
These  cases  are  far  from  isolated.  I  do  not 
believe  they  arise  from  the  heartlessness  of 
women,  but  from  lack  of  thought  and  care.  A 
man  can  offer  a  woman  nothing  higher  than  a 
sincere  love.  While  she  need  not  assume  that 
men  who  offer  her  attention  wish  to  marry  her, 
it  is  a  mistake  to  keep  one's  eyes  shut,  and 
open  them  only  to  find  that  a  heart  has  been 
hurt  temporarily,  and  perchance  permanently. 
Good  common-sense  as  well  as  principle  are 
necessary  in  matters  pertaining  to  hearts. 


DUTY. 

"  TAMES,  I  hear  you  are  getting  interested 
J  in  Martha  Wenham !  "  said  good  old 
Mrs.  Matthews,  tremblingly,  to  her  only  son, 
as  they  sat  by  the  fire  one  evening  after  he 
had  returned  from  a  hard  day's  work. 

He  had  been  her  only  support  for  four  years, 
ever  since  her  kind  husband  died.  His  sister 
Nellie,  sweet  but  fragile,  had  leaned  upon  his 
strong  arm  for  help,  for  she  was  unable  to 
support  herself. 

Mrs.  Clayton,  a  neighbor,  had  been  over 
telling  James's  mother  what  she  had  heard 
about  the  young  people :  that  they  had  been 
seen  to  walk  very  leisurely  home  from  singing- 
schools  and  prayer-meetings,  and  that,  at  the 
last  church  picnic,  he  and  Martha,  regardless 
of  all  the  others,  had  sauntered  off  to  a  cool, 
cosey  nook,  and  were  seemingly  very  happy 
and  very  much  absorbed,  as  people  are  wont 
to  be  under  such  circumstances.  Martha  was 
a  very  excellent  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  well-to- 


154  DUTY. 

do  village  merchant,  would  make  one  of  the 
best  of  wives,  and  James  would  be  fortunate  to 
win  her;  but  poor  Mrs.  Matthews  saw  herself 
and  Nellie  cast  upon  the  world,  for  in  case 
James  married  he  could  no  more  than  support 
his  wife  and  the  little  ones  that  would  prob- 
ably be  born  to  them.  He  had  been  a  faith- 
ful son,  leaving  school  and  books  that  he 
loved,  to  work  with  his  hands  and  earn  his 
bread.  He  had  been  able  to  pay  their  rent, 
get  them  a  few  neat  clothes,  and  buy  all  nec- 
essary food. 

Sometimes  he  seemed  rather  quiet,  as  though 
he  longed  again  for  the  school  days,  that  he 
might  realize  his  ambition  to  be  a  prominent 
man  in  the  world.  When  either  mother  or 
daughter  caught  a  glimpse  of  any  such  feel- 
ings, they  tried  to  make  the  home  pleasanter 
for  him.  Mrs.  Matthews  baked  things  he  liked, 
and  Nellie  took  a  little  picture  from  her  scant- 
ily furnished  room  to  hang  in  his,  or  gathered 
a  few  flowers  for  his  table. 

No  wonder  the  dependent  mother  spoke 
anxiously  about  his  interest  in  Martha  Wen- 
ham. 


DUTY.  155 

"  Yes,  I  like  her  very  much,  mother.  I 
think  she  is  the  noblest  girl  I  ever  saw!" 

Mrs.  Matthews  trembled  more  and  more. 
She  wanted  to  ask  him  if  he  ever  thought  of 
marrying  her,  but  she  could  not. 

Finally,  after  long  silence,  James  said,  as 
though  he  had  been  weighing  the  thing  in  his 
own  mind,  "  Do  you  think  she  would  make  me 
a  good  wife,  mother?" 

"I — I  think  she  might,  James,  but  what 
would  your  poor  mother  do?"  and  the  tears 
gathered  in  her  eyes.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  a 
burden,  James !  Don't  you  wish  there  were 
no  obstacles  in  the  way?  Oh,  James,  I  wonder 
God  arranged  it  so !  "  and  the  fond  mother 
could  have  longed  to  be  out  of  the  way,  that 
her  boy's  happiness  might  be  completed. 

James  Matthews's  big  heart  was  full.  He 
had  never  thought  of  leaving  his  mother,  and, 
though  he  loved  Martha,  duty  was  first  with 
him  always ;  so  he  put  his  hard  hands  upon  his 
mother's  gray  head  and  kissed  her,  bidding 
her  not  to  fear ;  that  he  should  never  leave  her, 
and  that  she  was  better  than  all  the  Marthas 
in  the  world,  and  as  for  Nellie,  he'd  work  his 


156  DUTY. 

fingers  off  for  her  before  any  other  girl  should 
take  her  place. 

That  night  there  was  a  timid  knock  at 
Martha's  door,  and  James  Matthews  was  cor- 
dially welcomed.  Several  times  before  all  the 
commonplaces  were  talked  of  he  tried  to  tell 
her  his  errand  in  coming,  but  his  courage  as 
often  failed.  Martha  broke  the  ice  for  him 
when  she  said,  "  I  think,  James,  that  day  spent 
at  the  picnic  was  the  pleasantest  of  my  life." 
What  could  be  more  delightful  than  to  hear 
from  her  own  lips  the  very  confession  he  had 
longed  to  hear  —  that  his  presence  was  a 
pleasure  to  hef,  that  she  perhaps  in  some 
measure  returned  his  affection? 

"  It  was  a  very  happy  one  to  me,"  responded 
James.  "  I  have  often  wondered  if  it  gave 
you  pleasure.  Martha,  perhaps  you  do  not 
know  that  I  have  loved  you  for  a  long  time, 
and  perhaps  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  tell  you  of 
it,  seeing  that  I  cannot  marry  anybody." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Martha,  a  blush 
spreading  over  her  fair  face  and  losing  itself 
in  her  golden  hair. 

"  Because  my  mother  and  sister  are  depend- 


DUTY.  157 

ent  upon  me,  and  as  long  as  they  live  —  and  I 
hope  it  may  be  many  years  —  I  shall  take  care 
of  them.  I  could  love  you  always  without  mar- 
riage, but  that  is  the  only  bond  that  can  keep 
you  mine  alone  and  forever.  Others  will  be 
seeking  one  so  good  as  you  are.  I  could  not 
ask  you  to  be  engaged,  for  you  might  wait  for 
years  before  I  was  able  to  support  a  third  in 
our  home,  and  support  you  as  nicely  as  I 
should  wish  to  do.  You  have  had  too  many 
comforts  to  receive  poverty  at  my  hands." 

"  You  know  I  am  young,  James,  only  seven- 
teen, and  I  can  wait  a  great  many  years  for 
you.  I  love  you  very  much,  and  I  have  a  good 
home  to  wait  in ;  so  what  matter,  so  long  as  we 
are  near  each  other?  I'll  wait  until  I'm  an 
old  lady,  James,  if  need  be." 

The  noble  giil  had  answered  as  her  pure 
heart  had  prompted. 

Many  a  man  knows  how  rich,  and  happy, 
and  satisfied  James  Matthews  felt  that  night 
as  he  came  home  in  the  moonlight.  How 
strong  his  arms  felt  for  work,  and  how  strong 
his  good  principles  seemed ! 

He  could  do  anything  now  for  mother  and 


158  DUTY. 

sister  —  make  any  sacrifice ;  for  did  not  one  wait 
for  him  whose  encouragement  was  more  than 
money,  to  live  with  whom  for  one  year  even 
would  recompense  for  a  score  of  years  of  labor? 

Mrs.  Matthews  and  Nellie  grew  happier  as 
they  saw  him  so  cheerful,  and  as  his  wages  in- 
creased with  his  larger  experience,  and  more  of 
the  comforts  of  life  were  obtained,  Nellie,  with 
less  anxiety  and  more  ease,  grew  better. 

Two  years  had  passed,  and  changes  had 
come  to  Martha  Wenham.  Her  father  was 
dead,  his  property  gone,  and  her  health  im- 
paired by  long  and  weary  care  of  him.  What 
was  left  for  her  but  to  claim  the  hand  of  him 
for  whom  she  had  waited  these  two  years? 
Refusing  all  others,  she  had  been  true  to  him. 
Now  came  the  time  of  trial  to  both. 

Martha  was  helpless,  and  had  nowhere  to 
look  but  to  him.  His  heart  clung  to  her  now 
more  than  ever,  but  who  could  support  the 
two  who  seemed  to  be  left  providentially  on  his 
hands?  Many  an  evening  he  passed  with  her, 
feeling  every  time  as  though  the  day  of  part- 
ing, if  it  must  come  to  that,  would  be  unbear- 
able ;  finally  he  resolved  to  marry  her,  take 


DUTY.  159 

her  to  his  home,  and  do  all  in  his  power  for  the 
three.  It  could  be  only  a  scanty  subsistence 
he  could  earn  for  them,  and  by  taking  another 
upon  himself,  would  he  not  spoil  the  happiness 
of  them  all?  He  might  have  but  one  meal 
a  day  for  himself,  and  he  was  willing;  but 
what  poor  reward  for  the  girl  who  had  lost 
so  many  good  places  in  life  to  share  penury 
with  him  ! 

"  James,  I  have  a  plan  to  propose  to  you, 
though  you  may  not  second  it,  and  indeed  I  do 
not  know  if  it  be  right  or  best,"  said  Martha  to 
him  one  night.  "  William  Stillson,  you  know, 
has  loved  me  from  the  time  we  were  children 
together,  and  has  always  been  a  warm  friend  to 
me,  even  after  I  refused  him.  In  these  days  of 
anxiety  and  prospective  want,  he  has  offered 
me  again  himself  and  his  lovely  home.  I  re- 
spect him,  James,  but  you  have  my  heart 
and  he  knows  it.  All  rests  with  you.  Shall  I 
marry  him,  and  thus  free  you  from  what  must 
necessarily  be  a  burden?" 

James  could  not  answer,  and  when  she  put 
her  cheek  upon  his  and  held  his  hand,  he  said, 
"  Oh,  Martha,  I  cannot  give  you  up  !  " 


160  DUTY. 

"  My  will  is  yours,"  she  said,  and  kissed  him 
good-night. 

It  troubled  him  after  he  came  home.  She 
might  be  so  comfortable  with  William,  so 
cramped  with  him.  His  duty  was  plain  before 
him.  He  took  a  pen  and  paper  and  hastily 
wrote : 

MY  MARTHA  :  I  release  you !  I  know  what  is 
best  for  you  !  Marry  William  and  be  happy.  There  is 
no  other  course.  I  shall  be  happy  because  you  are. 

My  blessing  go  with  you. 

Your 

JAMES. 

Four  weeks  after,  Martha,  a  woman  through 
her  sufferings,  and  true  to  her  womanhood  in 
acting  honestly,  gave  her  hand  to  William  Still- 
son,  promising  to  be  his  faithful  wife.  James 
heard  the  words  that  separated  them  forever, 
and  seemed  to  grow  stronger  for  his  duties  at 
home.  He  never  visited  her,  but  when  she 
bore  a  beautiful  boy  to  her  husband,  he  felt 
that  he  might  love  the  child,  and  this  wee  one 
became  his  plaything  for  many  a  month,  until 
they  moved  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  though  he  missed  the 


DUTY.  l6l 

boy  and  the  sweet  face  of  the  mother,  he  was 
no  longer  under  restraint.  He  could  have  her 
in  his  thoughts  better  than  in  his  sight. 

Many  a  year  went  by  quietly,  even  happily, 
to  James,  for  we  find  our  highest  happiness  in 
doing  our  daily  duties.  He  had  earned  his 
mother  and  sister  a  lovely  home,  which  is  much 
for  any  man  single  handed  to  do  ;  was  respected 
in  the  community,  well  read  through  his  indus- 
try and  perseverance,  and  a  genial  and  good- 
principled  citizen. 

Nellie  had  married  a  widower  with  several 
motherless  children,  and  she  was  doing  for 
others  what  had  been  done  for  her.  Then  the 
good  mother,  when  her  time  was  fully  come, 
died  and  was  buried,  and  James  was  left  alone. 

Everybody  supposed  he  would  marry  now ; 
wondered  why  he  was  a  bachelor !  All  the 
married  ladies  pitied  him  for  their  daughters' 
sakes,  and  ladies  of  uncertain  ages  looked  wist- 
fully in  his  direction.  An  old  lady  kept  his 
house  neatly,  while  in  books  and  memories  and 
social  converse  his  days  went  by  rapidly. 

One  morning  the  house  went  through  an 
extra  cleaning  and  arranging.  An  old  school- 


1 62  DUTY. 

friend,  a  bachelor  like  himself,  was  coming  to 
spend  several  days  with  him,  and  the  good 
housekeeper,  a  spinster  herself,  but  old  enough 
to  be  the  mother  of  both  of  them,  could  not 
help  feeling  a  little  tremulousness  with  regard 
to  the  new-comer.  James  secretly  felt  more 
than  ordinary  interest  in  his  coming,  from  the 
fact  that  Mrs.  Stillson  lived  in  the  same  place. 

"  I  believe  I  have  a  friend  in  your  vicinity," 
said  James  to  his  friend  the  first  evening,  at  the 
supper  table. 

"  Ah  !  I  suppose  some  flame  —  a  maiden 
lady  about  your  age,  probably." 

"  No.  A  Mrs.  Stillson  I  refer  to.  We  were 
very  excellent  friends  when  we  were  young." 

"  Indeed !  I  know  her  very  well.  Have 
done  considerable  law  business  for  her  since 
her  husband's  death.  She  has  four  children 
and  in  quite  straitened  circumstances." 

James  Matthews  felt  a  sudden  increase  of  cir- 
culation about  his  heart. 

She  was  free  to  wed  him  now,  if  she  would, 
he  thought  to  himself.  Now  he  could  be  a 
father  to  those  children,  and  do  for  them  all  he 
had  longed  to  do  for  her. 


DUTY.  163 

When  the  lawyer  went  home,  much  to  his 
surprise  Mr.  Matthews  accompanied  him. 

The  knock  at  Mrs.  Stillson's  door  was  an- 
swered by  a  bright,  noble-looking  boy  of  eigh- 
teen. The  mother,  with  the  same  sweet  face  as 
in  her  girlhood,  was  called  in. 

"  Oh,  James  !  "  she  said,  and  the  tears  gath- 
ered in  her  eyes.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
once  more!" 

Perhaps  she  thought  he  held  her  hand  too 
long  and  earnestly  for  a  man  who  probably 
had  a  wife  and  children  at  home. 

"  I  have  thought,"  she  added,  "  if  I  could 
only  see  you  in  our  present  circumstances,  you 
might  be  induced  to  take  our  youngest,  a  boy 
of  six,  and  adopt  him  as  your  own." 

"  Martha,  may  I  take  the  boy,  and  take  his 
mother  with  him?"  said  James  Matthews,  his 
heart  almost  too  full  for  utterance. 

The  cheek  was  laid  to  his  as  in  other  days, 
and  the  old  answer  given,  "  Your  will,  James,  is 
mine !  " 

He  was  satisfied  now,  with  a  happiness 
interwoven  with  it  that  none  knew,  except 
those  who  have  waited  long  and  been  rewarded. 


1 64  DUTY. 

The  old  housekeeper  felt  a  little  unpleasantly 
when  a  lady  and  four  children  were  so  suddenly 
added  to  their  family,  but  soon  recovered  her 
equilibrium,  and  did  everything  for  their  com- 
fort, living  with  them  until  she  died. 

There  was  considerable  gossip  for  a  time. 
Everybody  knew  now  why  he  had  not  married 
earlier.  The  maiden  ladies  were  quiet,  the  mar- 
ried ladies  very  polite,  and  James  and  Martha 
very  happy  in  themselves  and  in  their  children. 


WAIFY. 

"  TJ  EA  YENS,  a  baby!  Who  brought  such 
*•  *•  a  speck  of,  humanity  to  lay  at  my  cold 
door?  There  is  no  love  in  my  heart.  The 
thing  will  die  with  me.  I  '11  tuck  it  down  in 
the  corner  of  the  cave  for  to-night." 

Giles  Mortimer  laid  the  bundle  on  a  rough 
pine  table,  put  the  candle  close  beside  it, 
and  one  by  one  took  off  the  garments  folded 
about  it  —  took  them  off  with  the  same  care 
and  fear  of  touch  as  a  naturalist  in  preparing 
the  wings  or  feet  of  a  fly  for  microscopic 
examination.  He  half  raised  it  in  his  arms, 
then  laid  it  down,  walked  around  the  cavern 
with  a  vague  knowledge  of  a  near  presence, 
came  back,  took  it  up  slowly  and  held  it  by 
the  firelight. 

It  had  a  delicate  girl-face,  with  half-quiver- 
ing lips,  and  a  little  body  perfect  in  propor- 
tions. Who  was  she?  Some  mother  must 
have  cared  for  her  as  long  as  strength  or  life 
lasted,  for  she  was  now  fully  ten  months  old. 
165 


1 66  WAIFY. 

What  should  he  do  with  the  little  waif?  This 
triangular  cave  was  his  home.  The  green 
turf  above  it  shut  out  scorching  sun  and 
chilling  snow ;  the  rude  door  before  its  open- 
ing made  it  seem  secure  from  danger;  the 
mortar  he  had  put  about  the  sides,  the  tall 
prairie  grass  he  had  matted  over  the  ground 
floor,  the  old  stove  he  had  brought  thither, 
the  rustic  chair  he  had  made  from  the  sur- 
rounding forests,  and  the  Indian  blankets  he 
had  bought  for  his  bed,  all  made  it  comforta- 
ble, though  gloomy. 

Such  a  place  might  suffice  for  him,  but  how 
could  an  infant  grow  into  grace  and  beauty 
here,  leaning  ever  towards  the  light  of  the 
outer  world,  and  longing  for  love  that  must  be 
the  elixir  of  life  to  woman? 

The  lips  that  before  quivered  with  fear  now 
opened  with  hunger.  He  laid  her  down,  went 
out  to  a  log  box  adjoining  the  cave,  coaxed 
his  goat  to  a  fresh  supply  of  milk,  and  the 
babe  drank  from  his  hand,  nestled  her  head 
against  his  breast,  and  slept.  She  was  not 
tucked  away  in  a  corner,  but  rested  next  his 
heart  through  that  long  night. 


WAIFY.  167 

Giles  Mortimer  was  written  fatherless  and 
motherless  in  boyhood.  A  pleasant  home 
was  sold,  a  small  sum  of  money  laid  away, 
and  a  youth  just  needing  a  father's  care  and 
mother's  affection  was  thrust  upon  the  chari- 
ties of  the  world.  He  soon  found  employment 
in  a  factory,  and  there,  day  by  day,  when 
others  walked  and  laughed  upon  the  highway, 
he  worked  and  looked  beyond  to  a  successful 
future,  saved  his  money  carefully,  dressed 
simply,  and  in  a  few  years  had  nearly  enough 
to  defray  the  expenses  of  three  years'  study. 
College  days  followed.  Those  four  years 
brought  head  and  hand  work  to  Mortimer. 
By  forethought  and  exertion  he  gained  the 
privilege  of  sweeping  the  college  chapel,  took 
the  agency  of  books,  and  pictures  in  vacation, 
and  in  numerous  other  ways  partially  paid  for 
his  education.  His  companions  loved  him  for 
his  geniality,  and  admired  him  for  his  broad 
grasp  of  mind  and  manly  soul. 

Life  looked  full  of  promise.  Towards  what 
should  it  tend?  The  professions  were  full. 
Among  those  who  held  out  the  gospel  of  life 
to  the  famishing,  there  were  too  many  whom 


1 68  WAIFY. 

Christ  had  never  called  with  His  especial  call- 
ing. There  were  lawyers  at  every  corner 
quarrelling  for  a  petty  office,  or  looking  over 
dusty  books  while  sighing  for  the  bright  skies. 
There  were  teachers  who  needed  to  be  taught. 
Chemistry,  geology,  and  philosophy  had  so 
many  votaries  that  only  one  in  a  century  rose 
to  eminence,  and  the  remainder,  in  unsatisfy- 
ing mediocrity,  plodded  on  with  little  happiness 
to  themselves  and  still  less  to  others. 

He  turned  to  business.  Here  was  an  open- 
ing to  gain  honorable  power  by  effort  of  will, 
by  energy  of  hand,  and  by  vigor  of  mind. 
There  was  beauty  to  him  in  the  smoke  that 
curled  now  lazily,  now  swiftly,  from  the  chim- 
neys of  a  hundred  manufactories.  If  he  could 
not  be  a  merchant  prince  to  give  with  blessed 
munificence  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  for 
homes  for  the  poor,  he  might  have  a  home  for 
some  one  who  loved  him,  and  many  mites  to 
scatter  in  the  alleys  of  the  great  cities. 

With  Giles  Mortimer's  man-physique  and 
mind  there  was  a  woman's  sensitiveness,  and 
a  will  that  could  not  always  bear  the  shock 
of  opposition.  A  mountain  is  not  all  quartz, 


WAIFY.  1 69 

studded  with  jasper  and  amethyst,  nor  is  it  all 
trap,  brown  and  coarse.  All  lives  are  elements 
from  God's  great  storehouse,  and  earth  a  cru- 
cible which  melts  and  moulds.  He  needed  what 
most  men  need,  the  stimulus  of  love  to  give 
position  or  wealth  or  fame ;  the  encouragement 
of  a  voice  that  has  inspiration  in  it ;  the  touch 
of  a  hand  that  carries  hope  in  its  pressure ;  the 
look  of  an  eye  that  shines  like  a  lone  star  on  a 
dark  night.  He  had  seen  some  who  might 
have  walked  beside  him,  but  for  his  fear  of 
taking  them  from  a  hall  to  a  hovel. 

He  went  to  a  strange  city.  Counting-rooms 
were  filled,  and  clerkships  engaged  for  months 
in  advance.  He  knew  no  trade,  or  he  might 
have  worked  and  given  honor  to  that.  At  last 
he  obtained  a  place  in  a  hardware  establish- 
ment, and  for  two  years,  on  a  small  salary,  the 
student  did  uncongenial  work  to  live;  then  the 
firm  failed,  and  he  was  again  adrift.  He  would 
have  loved  manufacturing;  he  would  have  been 
proud  to  have  aided  America  with  the  labor  of 
his  brain  and  hands  combined ;  but  the  old 
question,  the  one  that  has  settled  upon  and 
crushed  so  many  young  men,  came  back  — 


1 70  WAIFY. 

"  What  business  can  be  carried  on  without 
money?" 

Many  men  have  struggled  through  poverty 
up  to  affluence.  Many  more  have  struggled  in 
it  down  to  a  grave.  There  are  not  wanting 
those  who  tell  us  that  every  man  may  succeed, 
if  he  will ;  and  yet  ninety  of  every  hundred  who 
enter  the  whirlpool  of  trade  are  lost. 

Like  many  others,  when  his  heart  was  saddest 
he  sang — sang  like  Carligny,  who  was  dying 
when  he  made  Paris  intoxicated  with  his  wit. 
No  publisher  was  obtained  for  his  poems ;  he 
had  not  found  that  spring  that  opens  all  portals 
—  a  name.  Every  house  was  already  filled  with 
manuscripts,  every  journal  with  hastily-written 
fragments.  A  living  earned  by  writing  was  one 
that  too  often  gave  straw  for  a  bed,  and  bread 
and  water  for  food.  He  was  growing  tired  of 
the  battle.  There  were  no  victories  —  all 
defeats.  Perhaps  he  lacked  proper  training  of 
self;  perhaps  the  now  weakened  physical  had 
dimmed  the  mental;  perhaps  circumstances 
without  were  as  strong  as  the  powers  within. 
Men  were  no  longer  brothers  to  him.  He 
sighed  for  the  freedom  of  solitude,  stepped  one 


WAIFY.  1 7 1 

evening  on  a  freight  train  going  West,  and, 
careless  for  the  future,  went  forward  to  an 
unknown  fate.  He  crossed  foaming  Lake 
Erie;  flat,  woody  Michigan  and  its  lake; 
passed  through  Milwaukee  with  its  forests  and 
few  inhabitants,  where  now  rises  one  of  the 
loveliest  cities  of  the  West,  out  into  the  unciv- 
ilized country.  The  land  was  rolling,  with  here 
and  there  a  prairie  shut  in  by  a  border  of  oak 
or  cotton- wood  trees.  The  lakes  —  long  Pewau- 
kee  ;  graceful  Pine  ;  clear  Kotchee,  that  makes 
the  highway  an  arch  and  circles  under  it;  and 
Neponset,  with  green,  scalloped  bank  and  a 
tree  in  each  scallop  reflected  by  the  waters  — 
all  these  were  like  oases  to  him. 

He  reached  the  Indian  village,  Oconomowoc, 
and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  peninsula  that 
almost  touches  the  island.  On  one  side  was  a 
lake  bordered  with  hawthorn,  on  whose  bank 
a  neat  church  now  stands ;  on  the  other,  five 
lakes,  some  small,  one  seventeen  miles  in 
length,  surrounding  islands  covered  with  spruce 
and  hemlock  and  oak.  Hills,  with  their  out- 
cropping quarries  of  limestone,  stood  out 
against  the  blue  sky.  Back  of  this  landscape, 


1 72  WAIFY. 

one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  West,  he  found 
a  cave  worn  into  the  mountain  —  a  gloomy 
place,  but  free  from  dampness,  and  comfortable 
for  one  who  had  no  care  for  humanity. 

Occasionally  he  made  friends  with  an  Indian 
and  asked  him  to  his  hut,  but  this  was  rare. 
They  looked  upon  him  as  a  pale-face  who, 
having  vexed  the  Great  Spirit,  was  repenting  in 
solitude.  He  spent  his  days  in  wandering  and 
study.  He  learned  the  geological  history  of 
the  place  from  the  hieroglyphics  God  puts 
upon  the  rocks  for  man  to  read.  He  pressed 
hundreds  of  flowers,  and  knew  what  Jehovah 
had  intended  for  the  gardens  of  the  growing 
West.  He  wrote  some,  and  grew  happy  in  his 
isolated  existence ;  yet  there  was  no  flow  of 
animal  life  within  him,  no  leaping  of  the  heart 
for  joy.  The  past  was  a  sealed  book ;  the 
present  written  with  the  indifference  of  a  stoic ; 
and  the  future  a  blank  leaf  with  no  desire  to 
write  upon  it. 

Such  was  Giles  Mortimer  when  a  tender 
child  was  laid  before  him  —  a  magnet  to  draw 
out  a  heart. 

He  called  her  Waify.     For  days   and  weeks 


WAIFY.  173 

he  dressed  her,  washed  her  delicate  clothes  with 
his  own  hands,  fed  her,  and  made  a  wagon  of 
rough  boards  and  drew  her  to  the  lakes,  that 
she  might  dabble  her  hands  and  feet  in  the 
clear  waters.  Soon  the  baby  lips,  as  if  taught 
by  angels,  said  "  Papa !  "  and  the  man's  affec- 
tions swept  back  upon  him  as  a  flood.  He 
kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  she,  all  uncon- 
scious of  the  reason,  put  her  fingers  in  his  hair 
and  beard,  and  laughed  with  that  merry  laugh 
that  makes  most  homes,  even  in  their  decay, 
full  of  the  echoes  of  childhood.  A  new  look 
was  born  into  his  face,  a  look  of  manly  pro- 
tection, as  though  a  soul  was  given  to  his 
charge. 

Six  months  came  and  went.  Little  feet 
strolled  outside  the  walls.  She  seemed  to  look 
vainly  for  something  to  play  with,  gathered 
blades  of  grass  and  flowers  in  her  creeping, 
and  showed  a  longing  for  a  fuller  life.  Morti- 
mer saw  it,  aroused  his  sleeping  ambition,  put 
out  the  fire  in  the  old  cave,  put  Waify  into  the 
wagon,  with  a  blanket  about  her  that  he  might 
keep  in  memory  the  first  night  she  slept  under 
it,  tossed  his  half  dozen  books  and  small  bundle 


1/4  WAIFY. 

of  clothes  at  her  feet,  and  started  for  the  city. 
Kind  people  gave  them  a  shelter  at  night,  and 
Waify  made  friends  everywhere. 

To  the  home  of  a  lady  he  had  known  among 
the  early  settlers  of  Milwaukee  he  carried  his 
precious  charge,  and  started  this  time  for  busi- 
ness with  a  strength  and  energy  that  knew  no 
failure.  There  were  some  struggles,  but  at 
length  a  place  was  found  with  a  land-broker. 
The  city  was  growing  rapidly.  Small  pieces 
of  land  were  purchased  as  by  economy  some 
money  was  saved. 

After  many  months  of  labor  a  small  house 
was  hired,  a  pretty  play-room  arranged  for  the 
wee  Waify,  a  good  servant  obtained,  and  Giles 
Mortimer  was  a  happy  man.  No  longer  hating 
the  world  or  its  people,  but  having  grown 
strong  from  obstacles  overcome,  he  had  sym- 
pathy for  others  and  a  genial  look  and  manner 
that  gave  him  the  fascination  of  a  woman. 

Every  night  Waify  came  a  little  way  to  meet 
him.  Then  by  the  firelight  he  told  her  cheery 
stories,  made  rabbits  for  her  on  the  wall,  and 
with  her  on  his  knees  thanked  God  for  some- 
thing human  to  love. 


WAIFY.  175 

School  life  began.  A  tiny  primer  was  pur- 
chased, and  Mortimer,  more  the  man  than  ever, 
taught  her  the  alphabet.  "  A  "  she  remembered 
from  two  rivers  and  a  brook  across.  "  B  "  was  a 
river  with  two  little  crooked  ones,  and  "  C  "  stood 
for  the  cave.  Every  summer  since  they  lived 
in  the  city  he  had  taken  her  thither  and  showed 
her  where  she  used  to  live. 

"  Here  is  the  place  where  you  were,  Waify ; 
here  the  table  where  I  put  my  baby ;  here  the 
old  stove  where  I  warmed  your  milk ;  here  the 
green  grass  where  you  played." 

"  Pretty  !  pretty  !  "  said  Waify.  "  Kind  papa 
to  take  care  of  me  !  Papa,  when  Waify  dies 
will  you  bury  her  here  among  the  flowers,  and 
make  a  big  '  C,'  for  cave,  on  the  stone?  " 

A  hurried  kiss  was  the  answer,  while  a  shock 
that  seemed  like  a  premonition  struck  every 
nerve. 

"Will  you,  papa?  Will  you?"  pleaded  the 
child.  "  Right  here  where  the  double  daisies 
grow?  " 

"The  garden  will  be  gone,  Waify." 

"  But  won't  you  keep  it  for  me,  and  bring 
me  here?  " 


176  iv A  IF y. 

"  Yes,  darling.  Yes,  little  one !  "  and  they 
went  home,  the  one  light-hearted  with  the 
prospect  of  school  again,  the  other  saddened 
with  a  thought  that  seemed  a  prophecy. 

A  few  days  of  joyous  life  went  by.  The  little 
school-girl  seemed  less  fond  of  play,  more  cling- 
ing to  her  adopted  father,  more  thoughtful ; 
then  a  slow  fever,  that  seemed  to  have  been 
inherited  rather  than  the  result  of  contagion, 
came  on,  and  Waify,  now  scarcely  out  of  her 
babyhood,  was  going  to  sleep  through  a  long 
night. 

Giles  Mortimer  watched  her  by  day  and  by 
night,  speechless ;  brought  the  toys  she  loved, 
and  laid  them  beside  her ;  brought  the  blocks 
of  letters,  and  she  took  the  "  C "  and  put  it 
under  her  pillow. 

"  Papa,  we  Ve  had  nice  times  together. 
Who  '11  be  your  little  girl  when  Waify  goes? 
Everybody  has  little  girls.  Perhaps  some- 
body '11  bring  you  one." 

While  he  blessed  God  that  she  had  been 
given  to  make  him  the  man  he  was,  he  asked 
for  no  other  in  her  place. 

"  But  you  must  stay,  Waify.  I  could  n't  be 
happy  without  you." 


WAIF7.  177 

"  No,  papa,  I  must  go  to  ask  God  about  my 
mamma,  and  perhaps  I  '11  come  back  and  tell 
you." 

How  little  do  children  know  of  the  land  from 
whence  there  is  no  return  ! 

The  day  looked  for,  dreaded,  came. 

"Where's  the  '  C,"  papa?' 

Clasping  this  tightly  with  one  hand  and 
Mortimer's  with  the  other,  looking  sadly  at  the 
tears  upon  his  cheeks,  then  joyfully  out  into 
the  space,  she  said,  "  Kiss  Waify !  "  and  was 
dead. 

Giles  Mortimer's  heart  was  mangled.  The 
only  thing  he  loved  was  taken. 

There  was  a  quiet  gathering,  and  then  he, 
with  the  sexton,  took  the  little  one  to  the  cave, 
dug  a  grave  under  the  daisies  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  garden,  put  a  little  tablet  above  it,  and 
upon  it  the  large  marble  "  C  "  that  stood  for  cave, 
and  went  back  to  his  duties  to  work  faithfully 
because  her  memory  was  something  like  her 
presence.  The  house  was  desolate,  but  sacred 
because  Waify  had  been  there.  Business  was 
interesting  because  entered  upon  for  her;  life 
was  blessed  because  she  had  lived.  Prosperity 


1/8  IV A  IF  Y. 

came  to  him.  He  loved  other  children,  but 
there  was  only  one  Waify. 

She  had  done  her  work.  Through  her  love 
a  man  had  known  and  found  his  manhood  —  had 
taken  his  true  place  in  the  world,  in  ge.iial 
intercourse,  in  business  power,  in  Christian 
benevolence.  He  has  grown  in  position  with 
the  growth  of  a  large  city,  but  he  still  calls  it 
home  where  a  heart  is  buried,  by  the  cave  in 
Oconomowoc. 

Perchance  God  told  Waify  of  her  mother,  or 
told  the  mother  of  her  child,  for,  weeks  after  her 
death,  Giles  Mortimer  found  upon  the  grave  a 
touching  token  of  a  mother's  love  —  a  wreath  of 
immortelles  wrought  into  the  word  "  Mother." 


THE    BLACK   AND   TAN. 

IV/TRS.  HENSON  sat  with  her  three  chil- 
**•*•  dren  at  their  frugal  supper.  The  house 
was  neat,  but  very  plain,  and  the  dress  of  the 
children  showed  that  they  were  only  a  trifle 
above  actual  want. 

James,  a  boy  of  ten,  sold  newspapers  and 
earned  a  little.  Helen,  between  eight  and 
nine,  could  help  about  the  house  when  her 
mother  was  absent  cleaning  or  washing,  and 
Mary,  seven,  was  the  baby  of  the  household, 
and  the  one  for  whom  all  the  others  sacrificed. 

"Did  you  earn  much  this  week,  James?" 
said  the  mother,  who  had  been  a  widow  for 
several  years.  "  You  know  I  have  been  sick, 
'and  we  can't  meet  the  rent  this  month,  and 
we  did  n't  last  month.  I  don't  know  what 
we  shall  do,"  said  Mrs.  Henson,  in  a  tone  of 
confidence  with  James,  although  she  did  not 
expect  that  her  three  small  children  could  help 
her  solve  the  problem.  She  knew  that  work 
alone  would  solve  it,  and  this  she  was  not 
179 


l8o  THE  BLACK  AND    TAN. 

always  able  to  obtain,  and  had  been  too  ill  to 
labor  even  if  the  work  were  before  her. 

"  I  tried  hard,"  said  the  brown-eyed,  slender 
boy,  "  but  I  did  n't  sell  as  many  papers  as  I 
do  sometimes.  I  ran  just  as  fast,  but  some- 
how I  did  n't  get  so  many  customers,  and 
there  were  n't  so  many  extras.  You  know  a 
lady  once  in  a  while  slips  a  nickel  into  your 
hand  for  a  paper  and  won't  wait  for  change, 
and  that  helps  a  fellow  along.  But  I  did  n't 
have  much  of  that  last  week.  I  did  n't  spend 
anything  for  myself,  either." 

"  No,  you  would  n't  do  that.  We  all  save 
for  each  other  since  father  died.  We  shall 
get  over  these  hard  places  when  you  are  a 
little  older." 

"  Could  n't  you  borrow  of  the  lady  on  the 
hill  who  gave  me  the  shoes?"  said  Helen. 
"  She  seems  very  nice,  and  she  is  rich." 

"  She  has  been  good  to  us,"  said  the  mother, 
"  but  I  hate  to  bother  her.  One  can  wear  out 
generous  people  by  too  constant  asking  for 
aid." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  to  do,  mamma,"  said 
little  Mary;  "we'll  sell  the  black  and  tan  to 


THE  BLACK  AND    TAN.  l8l 

the  big  gentleman  who  always  speaks  to  me 
so  kind." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  all  the  other  voices  together. 
"  Blackie  was  given  to  you,  and  you  have 
played  with  her,  and  we  could  n't  spare  her. 
She  eats  very  little,  and  you  love  her  very 
much.  She  is  the  life  of  the  house,  she  is 
so  frolicsome." 

"  But  he  would  pay  money  for  her,  and  I 
could  spare  her  if  I  had  to.  You  said, 
mamma,  we  might  be  turned  out  of  the  house, 
and  then  what  would  Blackie  do  for  a  home? 
I  think  she  would  be  happy  in  a  big  house, 
and  we  would  give  the  man  the  basket  she 
sleeps  in,  so  she  would  be  contented  and 
remember  us,  too." 

"  Well,  who  would  take  her  to  the  gentle- 
man? "said  Mrs.  Henson.  "I  fear  he  would 
think  it  foolish." 

"  I  will  take  her,"  said  the  child. 

In  the  afternoon  Mary  wended  her  way  to 
the  mansion,  with  Blackie  and  the  basket,  and 
asked  for  the  Hon.  Mr.  Colebrook.  That  gentle- 
man rarely  had  time  to  see  adults,  but  he  would 
not  refuse  a  child. 


1 82  THE   BLACK  AND    TAN. 

When  he  entered  the  room  he  found  little 
Mary  Henson  with  her  basket  and  her  dog, 
her  eyes  very  red  with  weeping,  and  the  dog 
whining  as  though  she  had  heard  the  whole  plan 
of  separation  from  those  she  loved  in  the  poor 
home. 

"  I  've  brought  you  my  Blackie,  sir,  to  sell 
her  to  you.  Mamma  needs  money  for  rent, 
and  as  you  are  rich  I  thought  you  would  like 
to  buy  her.  She  will  love  you  very  much,  and 
kiss  your  face.  She  always  sleeps  with  me, 
and  perhaps  she  would  sleep  with  you." 

"And  can  you  spare  her?"  said  the  mill- 
ionaire. "  I  fear  she  would  cry  for  her  former 
home.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  been 
crying." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  did  cry  some  when  I  kissed  her 
the  last  time,  and  mamma  and  Helen  and  James 
all  cried,  because,  you  see,  Mr,  Colebrook,  she 
is  all  we  have  to  love !  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  ask  for  her?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Mamma  owes  ten  dollars 
for  rent  for  the  two  months.  I  think,  maybe, 
if  you  would  pay  that  for  her  you  could  pay 
half  now,  and  the  landlady  might  wait  for  the 


THE  BLACK  AND    TAN.  183 

other  half,  because  she  would  know  you  would 
surely  pay.  I  thought  of  selling  Blackie  to 
her,  but  Blackie  needs  a  very  nice  home.  Mme. 
Wainwright  gave  her  to  me,  so  you  see  Blackie 
comes  from  a  good  family,  sir,  and  puts  up 
with  our  poor  home  because  we  all  love  her 
so." 

"  Well,  I  will  take  her,"  said  Mr.  Colebrook, 
"  and  if  she  cries  I  will  send  for  you  to  comfort 
her." 

All  this  time  Blackie  was  laying  her  head 
close  to  the  child,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  We 
will  not  be  separated."  When  the  millionaire 
attempted  to  take  her  she  growled,  and  then 
looked  plaintively  toward  her  little  mistress. 

"He'll  be  very  good  to  you,  Blackie,"  said 
the  child,  who  could  not  stop  her  tears.  She 
wanted  to  sell  the  dog,  and  yet  if  she  could  only 
have  the  money  and  Blackie  too  !  But  that  was 
impossible. 

"  I  have  no  little  girl  to  pet  the  dog,"  said 
the  great  man,  "  and  I  fear  she  will  be  lonely. 
You  must  come  and  see  her,"  and  he  put  the 
ten  dollars  into  the  child's  hand,  bade  her  good 
afternoon,  and  closed  the  door  on  a  very  sad 


1 84  THE  BLACK  AND    TAN. 

little  heart.  Blackie  crouched  down  in  her 
basket  as  though  the  fine  house  were  of  no 
importance,  and  whined  piteously  for  the  little 
girl  who  had  left  her. 

Mary  sobbed  all  the  way  home,  but  she 
clasped  the  ten  dollars  tightly,  and  was  thankful 
that  they  could  all  have  a  house  over  their 
heads  for  a  little  longer. 

"  I  've  brought  the  ten  dollars,  mamma,"  said 
the  child,  and  she  laid  it  in  her  mother's  lap 
and  stole  away  to  weep  alone  over  her  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Henson  was  very  sad  over  the  matter. 
If  she  could  earn  but  ten  extra  dollars !  But 
she  could  not.  The  dog  was  probably  not 
worth  over  a  quarter  of  that  sum,  and  the  rich 
man  had  bought  her  just  to  help  the  family. 
Well,  Blackie  would  have  a  home  of  luxury, 
and  that  was  a  comfort. 

Hon.  Mr.  Colebrook  had  become  interested 
in  the  child,  and  called  at  the  little  home  a 
few  days  later  to  see  how  the  widow  and  her 
family  were  prepared  to  meet  the  coming  cold 
weather. 

He  asked  for  Mary.  She  was  not  well,  the 
mother  said,  and  had  no  appetite.  "  I  suppose 


THE  BLACK  AND    TAN.  185 

she  misses  Blackie,"  said  Mrs.  Henson,  "  though 
she  never  speaks  of  her." 

"  And  the  dog  misses  her,  too,  for  she  will 
neither  eat  nor  play,"  said  Mr.  Colebrook.  "  I 
hope  she  will  be  better  soon,  for  she  is  a  win- 
some little  creature.  We  are  already  fond  of 
her." 

"  We  are  glad  to  have  her  in  so  good  a 
home,"  said  Mrs.  Henson. 

"  How  do  matters  look  for  the  winter  ?  "  said 
the  man  of  means.  "  Is  the  rent  provided  for, 
and  the  coal  in  the  cellar?  " 

"  I  think  we  can  get  along  now,  since  you 
kindly  paid  the  rent  for  two  months.  I  am  in 
better  health,  and  James  seems  to  be  selling 
more  papers." 

Wrhen  Mr.  Colebrook  had  gone  Mary  stole 
out  to  ask  about  Blackie.  She  could  not  go 
to  see  the  dog,  —  that  would  give  pain  to  two, 
—  but  she  was  eager  to  hear  about  her  mute 
little  playmate. 

"  Mr.  Colebrook  says  Blackie  will  not  eat 
much  and  misses  you  greatly,"  said  Mrs.  Hen- 
son.  A  smile  crept  over  the  child's  face  as  she 
said :  "  I  thought  Blackie  really  loved  me.  I 


1 86  THE  BLACK  AND    TAN, 

would  go  to  see  her  if  she  would  n't  feel  bad 
when  I  came  away,  and  I  must  n't  make  her 
heart  ache." 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  '11  forget  about  us  all  soon, 
and  enjoy  her  new  home  very  much !  "  said 
Helen. 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Mary.  "  Blackie  never 
forgets.  She  never  did." 

It  was  late  in  the  autumn,  and  Mrs.  Henson 
was  too  busy  with  work  to  think  much  more 
about  a  dog.  James  was  up  early  and  home 
late,  and  Helen's  little  hands  were  more  than 
filled  with  work  too  hard  for  a  child. 

Christmas  was  near  at  hand,  and  the  rich 
and  the  poor  were  planning  according  to  their 
means  for  a  merry  time.  Mrs.  Henson's  pres- 
ents must  necessarily  be  small,  and  along  the 
line  of  the  absolutely  necessary.  James  must 
have  boots,  Helen  a  simple  dress,  and  Mary 
some  mittens,  with  a  bag  of  parched  corn,  a 
little  candy,  and  a  few  nuts. 

Mr.  Colebrook  did  not  forget  the  widow's 
family.  •  He  sent  coal,  a  barrel  of  flour,  some 
money  for  rent,  and  some  articles  of  clothing 
for  the  children.  There  was  one  quite  large 


THE  BLACK  AND    TAN,  187 

package  for  Mary.  What  was  in  it  nobody 
could  imagine,  though  Mrs.  Henson  was  in  the 
secret.  Finally  a  low  whining  was  heard ;  the 
box  was  hastily  opened,  and  out  sprang  Blackie 
into  Mary's  lap,  and  kissed  her  over  and  over 
again.  The  child  cried,  and  Blackie  nestled 
her  face  against  Mary's  neck  and  cried  also. 
She  was  home  again  as  a  Christmas  present, 
and  she  liked  the  plain  home  better  than  the 
grand  one. 

"  Did  you  really  want  to  come  back,  Blackie," 
said  Mary,  "  and  sleep  with  me  again,  and  not 
be  rich  and  great  any  more?  "and  Blackie 
wagged  her  tail  and  whined  approvingly,  as 
though  it  were  the  happiest  Christmas  of  her 
life. 


THE    CHRISTIAN    HUNTER. 

" "  I  "HIS    is    Mr.    Graham,    a    leader    in     our 

-*-  church  work,"  said  Miss  Ward,  as  she 
introduced  the  fine-looking  young  man  to  her 
friend  Miss  Warburton. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  the  person  addressed.  "  I 
remember  seeing  you  at  the  lakes  last  summer. 
What  a  pleasant  company  we  had  at  the 
hotel !  " 

"Yes,  but  I  went  especially  for  the  shooting. 
Such  fine  game  up  there !  Birds  of  many 
kinds,  ducks,  and  now  and  then  a  deer.  I  went 
just  for  sport,  though  I  did  n't  care  much  about 
the  things  after  they  were  shot.  We  went  fish- 
ing one  day,  and  the  fish  were  so  small  we  let  a 
quantity  die  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  rather 
than  carry  them  home.  We  had  quite  an 
excitement  one  day  when  we  found  we  had 
killed. a  robin  and  her  youngsters  were  in  a 
nest  close  by  with  open  mouths." 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  little  birds?" 
said  Miss  Warburton. 

1 88 


THE    CHRISTIAN  HUNTER.  189 

"  Oh,  they  had  to  starve,  of  course !  " 

"And  did  you  bring  home  the  mother  bird?" 

"  No,  she  was  pretty  badly  hurt,  and  couldn't 
live  long.  We  had  so  many  ducks  and  other 
things  that  we  could  n't  carry  all  of  them." 

"  Don't  you  feel  badly  to  leave  a  wounded 
robin  or  duck  to  die  slowly?" 

"  Oh,  we  men  have  n't  women's  hearts,  Miss 
Warburton,  or  we  should  n't  shoot  at  all,  I 
fear!  " 

"  I  never  could  see  how  a  Christian  man 
could  find  pleasure  in  giving  pain.  I  know 
some  of  our  professing  Christians  have  hunted 
buffaloes  on  the  American  plains,  and  left  them 
to  die,  just  for  the  sport  of  killing,  as  some  of 
the  English  hunters  do  in  South  Africa.  And 
I  suppose  some  who  hunt  foxes,  and  find 
pleasure  in  seeing  dogs  catch  and  tear  them 
to  pieces,  profess  Christianity." 

"  Well,  you  ladies  are  eager  to  ride  fast  and 
get  the  brush." 

"  I  should  not  be.  I  would  not  take  the  tail 
of  the  fox  after  the  poor  thing  had  been  fright- 
ened nearly  to  death  before  capture.  We  think 
bull-fights  in  Spain,  where  animals  are  killed 


190  THE    CHRISTIAN  HUNTER. 

for  sport,  brutal  and  wicked  ;  but  we  seem  to 
think  that  where  foxes  are  killed  for  sport  it 
is  only  a  pleasant  and  exhilarating  pastime. 
Does  the  size  of  the  animal  make  the  differ- 
ence? " 

"  I  think,  Miss  Warburton,  you  would  de- 
prive us  of  all  pleasure.  Nothing  is  more  brac- 
ing than  the  eager  run  with  the  dogs  over  fields 
and  fences,  and  the  rivalry  in  reaching  the  game 
first  is  very  exciting." 

"  And  the  next  day  or  the  next  week  you 
come  back  and  lead  a  prayer  meeting,  and  urge 
us  to  be  gentle  and  tender,  and  trust  in  Him 
who  lets  not  even  a  sparrow  fall  to  the  ground 
without  his  notice  !  I  think  Cowper  was  right 
when  he  said  — 

"  '  I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 

(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility),  the  man 

Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm.'  ' 

"But,  Miss  Warburton,  you  must  remember 
that  animals  are  killed  for  food  for  you  and  me, 
and  for  others." 

"  That  should  be  done  as  humanely  as  possi- 
ble, Mr.  Graham.  Our  stock-yards  and  places 


THE    CHRISTIAN  HUNTER.  191 

for  killing  animals  should  all  be  under  the  most 
careful  city  or  State  supervision.  We  can 
easily  brutalize  people.  At  first,  most  men  and 
women  shrink  from  inflicting  pain  or  shedding 
blood,  but  even  those  high  in  church  or  State 
can  become  callous  to  cruelty." 

"  I  fear  you  would  n't  approve  of  letting  min- 
isters and  presidents  have  a  little  fun  from 
shooting." 

"  No,  not  if  that  '  fun  '  took  even  birds  away 
from  their  young,  and  helpless  creatures  were 
shot  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  shooting.  The 
Princess  of  Wales,  thanks  to  her  womanly 
heart,  has  helped  to  put  an  end  to  pigeon- 
shooting  for  sport,  and  balls  are  found  to 
answer  the  purpose." 

"  This  is  getting  personal.  I  fear  you  will 
not  enjoy  having  me  lead  our  meetings  and 
asking  sinners  to  become  converted." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Graham.  Some 
persons  may  not  feel  as  I  do,  but  for  myself  it 
greatly  lessens  the  force  of  your  words  or 
prayers.  I  have  spoken  plainly  because  I  be- 
lieve your  killing  for  sport  has  a  bad  influence 
over  others.  To  me  it  does  not  seem  con- 


IQ2  THE   CHRISTIAN  HUNTER. 

sistent  with  your  profession  of  kindness  and 
love  to  all  of  God's  creatures.  I  hope  you  are 
not  offended." 

"  Oh,  no,  far  from  it !  You  have  set  me 
thinking.  It  has  been  thoughtlessness  on  my 
part,  for  as  a  leader  in  Christian  things  I  want 
to  do  what  is  right." 


LOVE'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

"  T  THINK  George  Thomas  is  fond  of  Edith, 
•*-   for    he    comes   to   the    house    often,    and 
always  gives    her    a   delicate    deference   which 
shows  his  appreciation  of  woman." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Sinclair  in  reply  to  his  wife, 
"  Thomas  is  a  good  fellow,  a  hard  worker, 
economical,  and  worthy  of  any  girl,  though  of 
course  he  is  n't  rich.  That  does  n't  matter,  how- 
ever, for  I  have  enough  for  Edith.  I  've  often 
wondered  why  he  did  n't  offer  himself." 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  replied  his  wife,  "except 
that  he  does  not  ear*n  enough  to  support  Edith 
in  the  way  she  has  been  accustomed  to  live. 
Young  men  are  unduly  sensitive  about  that, 
when  often  the  young  woman  would  value  a 
true  affection  more  than  a  fine  house  and  sur- 
roundings. I  am  sure  Edith  is  fond  of  him,  for 
although  she  says  nothing  her  face  and  manner 
show  it." 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  help  matters,  wife. 
Probably  time  will  settle  it." 
i93 


194  LOWS   CHRISTMAS    GIFT. 

But  time  did  not  settle  it,  for  Edith  Sinclair, 
for  some  unexplained  reason,  was  growing  pale 
and  listless.  Something  was  wearing  her  nerves, 
and  at  last  she  was  really  ill.  Naturally  frail,  and 
loving  one  to  whom  she  could  not  make  known 
her  feelings,  the  repression,  uncertainty,  and 
perhaps  surprise  that  no  word  was  spoken 
finally  culminated  in  her  illness. 

A  physician  was  called,  a  woman  who  had 
long  been  the  friend  of  the  family ;  she  divined 
some  trouble  that  was  not  apparent  to  the 
world.  One  morning  when  she  came,  taking 
Edith's  hand  she  said,  "  Dear,  I  think  some- 
thing is  worrying  you.  Would  you  mind  tell- 
ing me  so  that  I  can  help  you,  perhaps?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  doctor,"  said 
the  girl  sadly,  as  tears  came  into  her  large, 
dark  eyes.  "  I  have  everything  in  this  beauti- 
ful home,  but  I  don't  care  for  it." 

"But  what  would  make  you  happy  —  to  go 
away  for  a  time  and  have  change  of  air  and 
scenery?  " 

"  No,  I  would  rather  stay  here.  I  am  too 
tired  to  go  away." 

"  Edith,  I  must  tell  you  what  I  think  is  the 


LOVE'S   CHRISTMAS   GIFT.  195 

truth.  You  love  Mr.  Thomas,  and  are  unwill- 
ing that  he  or  anybody  should  know  it." 

"  I  admire  him  very  much,"  said  the  girl 
slowly. 

"  But  why  have  you  never  let  him  see  that 
you  liked  him?" 

"  I  could  n't  do  that,  doctor.  He  knows  that 
we  are  good  friends." 

"  Has  he  ever  spoken  of  marriage?  " 

"No." 

"  Would  you  marry  him  if  he  asked  you?" 

"  If  he  loved  me  —  never  without." 

"What  if  I  should  find  out  his  feelings  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  for  the  world,  doctor !  Let  that 
come  of  his  own  free  will  if  at  all." 

"  But  you  are  ill,  child,  and  you  are  letting 
the  matter  prey  upon  your  strength  and  health. 
Mr.  Thomas  is  a  noble  young  man,  and  I  be- 
lieve is  fond  of  you." 

"  We  must  wait,  doctor.  I  shall  be  better 
soon." 

Mr.  Thomas  called  a  few  days  later,  but 
Edith  was  too  ill  to  see  him,  and  he  left  his 
regrets  with  her  parents.  He  went  home  sadly 


196  LOVE'S  CHRISTMAS    GIFT. 

to  think  of  his  future.  He  loved  Edith,  he  was 
happy  in  her  refined  society,  but  his  salary  was 
not  large,  and  he  could  not  support  her  as  he 
desired.  She  would  tire  of  the  home  he  could 
give  her,  and  be  unhappy,  he  thought.  He 
called  again,  but  as  before  was  unable  to  see 
Edith. 

He  finally  resolved  to  talk  with  her  parents 
and  tell  them  of  his  love  for  her,  and  why  he 
had  waited  until  he  was  better  able  to  provide 
for  her;  but  she  was  an  only  child,  and  he  hesi- 
tated to  commit  himself.  Others  liked  her,  and 
he  loved  her  too  well  to  take  her  into  privation. 
Besides,  the  parents,  while  they  liked  him, 
might  not  be  at  all  willing  to  give  him  their 
daughter.  He  would  talk  with  her  physician, 
and  she,  a  woman,  would  know  whether  Edith 
were  really  interested  in  him. 

He  called  upon  Dr.  Mary  Armstrong  as  soon 
as  possible. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  about  my  friend,  Miss 
Sinclair,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  in  the  physician's 
parlor.  "Is  she  better?" 

"  No,  she  does  not  mend  at  all.  There 
seems  to  be  some  weight  upon  her  heart  or 
life  that  is  breaking  her  down." 


LOVE'S   CHRISTMAS   GIFT.  1 97 

The  blood  came  to  the  young  man's  face, 
but  how  could  he  know  that  "  the  weight " 
upon  her  heart  meant  love  for  him !  Perhaps 
he  was  too  presuming.  After  an  awkward 
silence  he  said,  "  Doctor,  I  must  confide  in  you. 
I  love  Miss  Sinclair,  but  I  have  never  had 
the  means  to  marry  her.  I  have  had  a 
mother  and  sister  to  make  a  home  for,  and  I 
could  not  ask  another  to  share  my  poverty.  I 
do  not  know  that  Edith  returns  my  affection, 
though  we  have  had  a  delightful  friendship 
together." 

"  She  loves  you,  I  feel  sure,"  said  her  doctor, 
"  and  I  think  your  mistake  has  been  that  you 
and  she  have  not  had  an  understanding  sooner. 
Edith  is  a  sensitive,  lovely  girl,  delicately  reared, 
and  almost  too  careful  of  the  conventionalities 
of  life,  or  she  would  have  shown  her  love  for 
you." 

"  Do  you  think  the  time  has  come  to  tell  her 
that  I  love  her?  " 

"  Perhaps  not  just  yet.  I  will  tell  her  of  our 
conversation  and  make  her  ready  for  the  meet- 
ing." 

Young   Thomas    went    away   with    a    lighter 


198  LOVE'S   CHRISTMAS   GIFT. 

heart  than  he  had  had  for  months.  At  last 
Edith  would  know  all  and  wait  for  him,  if  she 
loved  him. 

Dr.  Armstrong  came  every  day  to  the  Sin- 
clair home,  but  the  sick  girl  grew  no  better. 
Soon  after  this  talk  with  Mr.  Thomas  the 
doctor  said  to  Edith,  "  I  have  had  a  visit  from 
your  friend,  and,  just  as  I  expected,  he  loves 
you,  but  has  never  asked  your  hand  in  marriage 
because  he  has  so  many  cares  at  home  and  a 
small  salary." 

The  white  face  grew  eager  and  flushed  with 
color.  "  I  told  him,"  Dr.  Armstrong  contin- 
ued, "  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  not  hav- 
ing an  understanding  with  you,  and  then  both 
could  wait  for  marriage  if  circumstances  made 
such  waiting  wise.  Do  you  want  to  see  him, 
Edith?" 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  I  am  a  little  stronger.  I 
feel  too  weak  to-day." 

Several  days  passed,  and  strength  did  not 
return  rapidly,  but  a  new  peace  had  come  into 
Edith's  life,  for  she  loved  and  was  beloved,  and 
then  there  was  a  happy  meeting  of  the  two 
lovers,  but  a  quiet  one  of  few  words  and  prom- 
ises. 


LOVE'S   CHRISTMAS  GIFT.  199 

Weeks  and  months  went  by,  during  which 
time  hope  and  love  worked  the  same  miracle 
that  has  been  wrought  thousands  of  times  since 
the  world  began. 

Edith  walked  in  the  sunshine  of  a  new  day 
and  a  new  life  of  restored  health  and  vigor. 
The  autumn  leaves  took  on  their  color,  and  red 
showed  itself  again  in  the  young  girl's  cheeks. 

When  Christmas  day  came,  that  precious  day 
of  giving  and  receiving,  George  Thomas  and 
Edith  Sinclair  gave  themselves  to  each  other 
for  life. 


AN   UNFORTUNATE    SAIL. 

"  r  I  "HE  sunset  is  so  lovely  we  might  take  a 

-*-  row    on    the  ocean,"  said  Mr.  Farneaux 

to  the  young  lady  who  was  walking  beside  him. 

"  I  don't  quite  like  to  go  on  Sunday  evening," 
said  the  girl.  "  But  we  would  n't  stay  long, 
would  we?" 

"  Oh,  no,  only  till  the  sun  went  down  !  And 
we  have  just  come  from  church,  so  where  's  the 
harm?  " 

So  a  little  rowboat  was  engaged  for  an  hour, 
and  two  happy  persons  pushed  off  the  Jersey 
Island  coast.  They  chatted  merrily  as  the  red 
and  yellow  of  the  clouds  played  on  the  waters, 
and  let  the  boat  half  drift  toward  the  sunset. 

Suddenly  the  young  man  dropped  one  of  the 
oars.  A  shade  of  fear  passed  over  Louise 
Arnot's  face. 

"  Can  you  reach  it?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  yes,  don't  fear !  "  and  he  took  the  other 
oar  and  guided  the  boat  toward  the  missing 
paddle. 

200 


AN  UNFORTUNATE  SAIL.  2OI 

The  breeze  was  blowing  off  the  land,  and 
increasing.  The  boat  was  not  easily  managed 
with  one  oar,  and  the  cheery  face  of  young 
Farneaux  grew  a  little  troubled  as  the  oar 
drifted  faster  than  the  boat. 

Anxiety  does  not  give  a  steady  hand,  and 
before  he  knew  it  the  other  oar  had  slipped 
from  his  grasp. 

Miss  Arnot's  face  grew  white.  "  What  shall 
we  do?  We  are  drifting  out  to  sea.  Would 
they  see  us  if  we  were  to  signal  to  the  shore? 
Ours  is  the  only  boat  out.  Oh  !  why  did  we 
start  at  all?  " 

"  Accidents  will  happen.  I  must  jump  for 
the  oars.  I  am  a  good  swimmer.  Don't  get 
frightened  and  let  the  boat  tip  and  fill  with 
water.  I'll  soon  be  back." 

"  But  you  may  be  drowned,"  said  the 
frightened  girl.  "  I  wish  I  could  swim,  and 
so  help  you." 

"  No,  no  !  Keep  the  boat  steady  as  I  jump, 
and  I  '11  have  them  in  hand  soon.  I  must 
throw  off  this  coat,  so  I  can  swim."  He  rose, 
put  his  hand  on  the  side,  and  gave  a  leap  into 
the  ocean. 


2O2  AN  UNFORTUNATE  SAIL. 

Her  heart  sank  within  her  as  he  went,  but 
there  was  nothing  else  possible  to  be  done. 

The  boat,  lightened  of  its  freight,  glided  on 
further  and  further  from  shore.  She  wished 
she  were  heavier  to  hold  it  down.  She  wished 
she  could  reach  one  oar  while  he  obtained  the 
other,  as  both  had  now  floated  far  apart.  She 
watched  him  breathlessly  as  he  swam  away. 
Impeded  somewhat  by  his  clothes,  he  yet  swam 
hastily  and  caught  one  oar,  holding  it  up  to 
Louise's  delighted  eyes. 

He  did  not  see  that  the  boat  was  drifting  fast 
away  from  him.  But  he  must  have  the  other 
oar.  Both  persons  were  helpless  without  it, 
so  he  redoubled  his  efforts.  He  felt  the  breeze 
stiffening.  What  if  he  could  not  reach  the 
oar?  What  if  he  could  not  reach  the  boat 
with  its  fair  owner?  What  if  Louise  were  to 
drift  out  to  sea  and  be  drowned,  and  her  death 
be  laid  at  his  door?  No,  that  should  not  be; 
and  he  put  his  whole  strength  against  the 
waves.  He  gained  in  speed,  and  soon  held  the 
coveted  oar  in  his  grasp. 

He  looked  toward  the  skiff.  Alas !  it  was 
smaller  to  his  sight  and  almost  flying  before 


AN  UNFORTUNATE  SAIL.  2O3 

the  wind.  He  started  with  the  oars,  but  he  felt 
himself  weakening.  He  must  throw  them  away 
if  he  would  overtake  the  boat,  and  then  it  would 
be  certain  death  to  both.  The  moments  were 
agonizing.  Even  if  he  did  reach  Louise,  he 
could  not  swim  with  her  to  the  shore.  If  he 
reached  the  bank  himself,  he  could  get  friends 
to  put  out  and  save  her. 

Thus  reasoning,  he  sorrowfully  dropped  the 
oars  and  swam  for  life.  The  wind  had  now 
become  violent  and  he  was  losing  strength,  but 
fear  and  despair  nerve  us  to  our  uttermost; 
and  finally,  well  nigh  exhausted,  he  touched 
the  shore.  He  was  grateful,  but  almost  over- 
come with  sorrow  as  well  as  fatigue. 

An  excited  crowd  gathered  around  him. 

"Where  is  the  young  lady?"  they  asked. 

"  We  lost  the  oars,  and  she  has  drifted  out  to 
sea.  God  help  her !  " 

"Coward!"  shouted  the  crowd,  who  are 
usually  blind  and  unreasoning. 

"  Nobody  '11  believe  such  a  yarn,"  said  one. 

"  We  heard  cries  of  '  Murder  ! '  'way  back  here 
on  the  shore,"  shouted  others,  for  there  is  always 
a  class  of  persons  who  fill  life  with  imaginary 


204  AN   UNFORTUNATE  SAIL. 

evils,  as  though  it  were  not  full  enough  of  real 
ones. 

"Arrest  him — he  deserves  lynching,"  said 
others,  who  knew  and  honored  the  young  girl 
who  was  now  missing. 

"  Man  a  boat  and  let  us  go  and  bring  her 
back,"  persisted  young  Farneaux,  but  the 
people  laughed  him  to  scorn.  The  case  was 
plainly  against  him.  He  had  taken  her  out 
and  came  back  without  her.  He  could  swim 
and  she  could  not,  and  he  had  basely  deserted 
or  murdered  her.  Besides,  no  rowboat  could 
live  in  the  fast-increasing  waves.  The  officers 
hurried  Farneaux  off  to  jail,  and  he  was  indicted 
for  homicide.  In  vain  he  protested  ;  in  vain  he 
begged  for  clemency  till  the  matter  could  be 
investigated.  No,  they  would  keep  him  close 
in  hand,  and  if  anything  favorable  developed 
they  would  give  him  the  benefit. 

Meantime  what  had  become  of  the  rowboat? 
It  had  drifted  out  into  the  deep  ocean  with  its 
helpless  occupant.  The  sun  went  down  in  a 
blaze  of  light,  but  the  beautiful  red  and  orange 
colors  brought  no  joy  to  the  eyes  that  peered  in 
vain  toward  the  horizon. 


AN   UNFORTUNATE  SAIL.  205 

"  Mr.  Farneaux  would  not  desert  me,"  she 
murmured.  "Where  can  he  be?"  and  she 
shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  hoping  to  see 
the  dim  outline  of  a  human  being. 

The  stars  came  out  slowly  one  by  one,  and 
gradually  she  knew  that  she  was  at  the  mercy 
of  the  great  ocean  and  the  God  who  rules  over 
all.  What  might  come  she  hardly  dared  to 
think.  If  a  storm  did  not  arise,  she  might  float 
on  and  on.  If  the  wind  rose  higher,  more 
water  would  come  into  the  boat,  for  it  dipped 
already,  and  then  death  was  certain. 

She  began  to  grow  hungry  and  faint,  but  she 
must  not  give  up.  The  hours  grew  toward 
midnight.  There  was  no  use  to  call  aloud,  for 
there  was  no  soul  to  respond.  The  boat 
lurched,  and  was  now  half  full  of  water.  She 
could  only  pray  and  wait  in  agony. 

One  hour,  two  hours,  three  hours,  four  hours, 
five  hours,  which  were  as  long  as  weeks,  and 
then  the  sun  streaked  the  eastern  sky,  and  came 
up  as  grandly  and  joyously  as  though  no  hearts 
were  breaking  on  land  or  sea. 

"  O  Father  in  heaven,  if  some  ship  might 
only  pass  this  way  !  "  she  moaned.  So  thirsty, 


206  AN  UNFORTUNATE   SAIL. 

but  no  water  —  so  hungry,  but  no  food  —  weak 
from  loss  of  sleep,  but  with  nerves  strung  to 
their  utmost  tension  in  the  eager  watching  for 
a  sail. 

The  whole  forenoon  passed.  The  mid-day 
sun  grew  hot  and  parching,  and  hope  was  finally 
giving  way  to  despair.  The  whole  of  life  had 
been  reviewed,  with  thoughts  of  the  dear  ones 
waiting  for  her.  The  whole  afternoon  dragged 
on,  the  sun  set,  and  the  second  weary  night  was 
to  be  lived  through,  or  death  might  come  before 
morning.  Hunger  and  fear  had  blanched  the 
face,  and  death  even  was  beginning  to  lose  its 
terrors  from  the  numbness  of  the  physical. 

The  night  wore  away,  long  and  weary  and 
desolate,  and  again  morning  dawned.  Louise 
was  sitting  in  the  water  of  the  boat,  her  limbs 
chilling,  scarce  knowing  now  if  she  were  dead 
or  alive.  It  was  growing  toward  noon  again ; 
forty  hours  alone  on  the  ocean,  and  death  seem- 
ingly near  at  hand. 

Something  appeared  in  the  distance.  What ! 
Did  she  see  with  her  half-blind  eyes  the  smoke 
of  a  coming  vessel?  Could  it  be,  or  was  it  only 
a  mirage  which  had  deceived  again  and  again? 


AN  UNFORTUNATE  SAIL.  2O/ 

Yes,  it  actually  came  nearer;  but  would  it  see 
her,  a  mere  speck  on  the  ocean?  She  would 
gather  strength  enough  to  wave  her  handker- 
chief. Ah !  it  really  was  a  vessel.  God  help 
her  now  in  her  one  last  gleam  of  hope !  She 
had  no  strength  to  call,  and  even  if  she  had 
probably  such  call  would  be  useless.  How 
earnestly  she  prayed,  gaining  new  lease  of  life 
from  this  new  hope  ! 

"There  's  something  ahead,"  said  the  man  at 
the  lookout.  "  Perhaps  a  body  floating  out  at 
sea;  no,  it  looks  like  a  rowboat  —  perhaps  a 
drifting  lifeboat  of  some  steamer."  And  word 
was  given  to  bring  the  ship  alongside. 

"  Heaven  help  us  —  why,  there  's  a  girl  in 
the  boat  alone  !  " 

"  Lower  a  lifeboat,  boys,  and  pull  out  for 
her." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!"  said  the  men,  with  eager 
hearts,  for  none  have  warmer  than  those  who 
sail  the  ocean. 

Louise's  heart  bounded  for  joy  when  she 
saw  the  sturdy  oarsmen  come  near.  She  would 
have  fainted  hours  before,  but  now  she  wept 
with  gratitude. 


208  AN   UNFORTUNATE   SAIL. 

"  It 's  a  long  way  ye  are  from  home,"  said 
one  broad-shouldered  sailor,  as  he  lifted  her  in 
his  arms  like  a  child,  and  carried  her  into  the 
lifeboat. 

She  was  too  weak  to  tell  the  story  now,  and 
wondering  how  it  all  happened  the  men  carried 
back  their  precious  freight  to  the  ship. 

The  captain  and  officers  showed  her  every 
kindness,  offering  her  food  when  she  could  par- 
take of  it,  and  giving  her  every  chance  for  rest 
and  sleep. 

"But. we  cannot  take  you  home,"  said  the 
kind-hearted  man.  "  We  are  on  our  way  to 
America.  It  must  be  weeks  before  our  return." 

"  I  am  so  thankful  for  all  your  kindness.  I 
can  wait  anywhere,  only  so  I  send  them  word  of 
my  safety." 

The  steamer  arrived  on  the  Atlantic  coast 
May  19,  just  one  month  after  the  almost  fatal 
boat-ride. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  ocean  there  was 
sorrow  and  suspense.  Louise's  home  was  deso- 
late for  its  lost  one.  Public  opinion  was  still 
bitter  against  the  author  of  her  misfortune. 
With  innocent  heart,  but  blanched  face,  Mr. 


AN   UNFORTUNATE  SAIL.  209 

Farneaux  was  brought  from  jail  to  the  crowded 
court-room  for  his  trial  on  the  charge  of  homi- 
cide. Every  day  and  hour  he  had  hoped  for 
some  word  that  would  show  him  to  be  guiltless, 
but  days  grew  into  weeks,  and  neither  the  boat 
nor  Louise  Arnot  was  found.  He  supposed 
her  dead,  but  hoped  some  vessel  would  report 
the  empty  boat,  or  have  picked  up  at  sea  the 
missing  one. 

The  prosecution  made  out  a  strong  case. 

"  If  Mr.  Farneaux's  story  were  true,"  said  the 
attorney,  "  that  he  was  unable  to  reach  her,  and 
therefore  saved  his  life  by  swimming  ashore, 
her  body  would  have  been  found  on  the  beach 
long  before  this.  She  was  last  seen  in  his  com- 
pany. It  was  an  easy  matter  to  sink  the  oars 
and  then  swim  to  shore  after  the  deed  was 
done.  Thirty  days  have  gone  by,  long  enough 
for  any  vessel  to  have  picked  her  up  and 
restored  her  to  her  heart-broken  family,  if  she 
were  alive." 

And  then  for  hours  the  enormity  of  the  deed, 
the  coaxing  her  to  go  upon  the  ocean  that  Sab- 
bath evening,  the  cold-bloodedness  of  the  whole 
affair,  were  gone  over  by  able  lawyers. 


2IO  AN   UNFORTUNATE   SAIL. 

Mr.  Farneaux's  face  grew  white,  and  his  body 
trembled  at  the  accusations.  And  then  he  told 
in  straightforward  language  the  story  of  his 
losing  the  oars,  of  the  increasing  wind  so  that 
he  could  scarcely  gain  the  shore,  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  reaching  her  with  his  heavy  oars  in 
hands,  and  of  the  certainty  of  death  for  both  if 
he  attempted  it. 

"  He  talks  like  an  innocent  fellow,"  said  one. 

"  Yes,  I  have  known  him  for  years,  and  he  's 
a  well-brought-up  young  man,  but  I've  known 
well-brought-up  people  turn  out  to  be  fiends," 
said  another. 

"Not  often  if  they  have  Christian  parents," 
said  a  third.  "  That  young  man  has  a  good 
mother,  and  it's  rare  that  the  son  of  such  a 
mother  goes  wrong.  I  believe  in  the  man.  I  'd 
be  willing  to  wager  a  good  deal  that  his  story 
is  true." 

Several  witnesses  testified  as  to  good  char- 
acter, but  one  fact  was  patent  to  all,  that  Louise 
Arnot  went  out  with  him  and  he  came  back 
alone,  excited,  anxious,  and  seemingly  greatly 
disturbed.  He  could  prove  nothing,  and  cir- 
cumstances were  against  him. 


AN   UNFORTUNATE  SAIL.  211 

Away  in  America  the  sick  girl,  now  coming 
to  her  usual  health  by  care,  was  writing  a 
cable  message  the  hour  the  ship  arrived. 
"  How  glad  they  will  be  !  Poor  Mr.  Farneaux 
will  be  so  anxious.  He  swam  for  the  boat,  I 
know,  just  as  long  as  he  could." 

So  the  words  were  sent:  "Louise  Arnot 
picked  up  at  sea  in  open  boat.  Arrived  in 
New  York  May  19.  Well." 

A  courier  came  to  the  crowded  court-room 
and  delivered  the  message.  A  hush  fell  upon 
the  assembly,  and  th^n  a  cheer  broke  out,  and 
tears  rolled  down  the  cheeks  of  the  man  ac- 
cused of  murder.  The  proceedings  were 
stayed,  and  the  townspeople  waited  eagerly  for 
the  coming  of  Miss  Arnot,  that  she  might  tell 
the  story  of  why  she  was  left  alone  through 
those  terrible  forty  hours. 

The  captain  had  taken  Miss  Arnot  to  his 
home  till  she  should  fully  recover  and  be  able 
to  make  the  return  voyage.  One  day  as  she 
was  reading  the  daily  paper  her  eye  fell  upon 
the  words,  "  Supposed  murder  at  sea,"  and 
where  was  detailed  the  arrest  of  Mr.  Farneaux 
and  his  unexpected  deliverance  by  her  cable. 


212  AN   UNFORTUNATE  SAIL. 

"  What  if  I  had  not  been  rescued,"  she 
said,  "  and  had  died  in  the  boat !  Who  could 
have  saved  my  poor,  dear  friend  then  ?  "  And 
anew  she  thanked  God  for  her  miraculous 
deliverance,  and  for  saving  the  life  of  her  friend. 

A  few  weeks  later  Miss  Arnot  was  home  in 
her  beloved  island,  her  friends  gathering  about 
her.  All  were  eager  for  her  side  of  the  story. 
"  Mr.  Farneaux  has  told  the  truth,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  am  more  thankful  for  his  life  even  than 
for  my  own.  What  would  have  been  my  agony 
if  he  had  suffered  death*for  me !  " 

Time  will  tell  what  the  sequel  will  be ! 
Whatever  life  has  before  them,  neither  will  for- 
get the  awful  experience  of  being  on  the  sea 
alone,  drifting  helplessly,  or  on  trial  for  murder 
with  no  power  to  prove  one's  innocence.  And 
each  is  thankful  for  that  wonderful  deliverance. 


A   NEW   KIND   OF  WEDDING. 

"  T  DO  not  want  the  usual  kind  of  wedding," 

-*-  said  the  pretty  daughter  of  Jared  Strong, 
the  millionaire  of  Huntsville.  "  I  would  rather 
use  the  money  spent  for  flowers  and  supper 
in  a  way  that  pleases  me  better." 

"And  what  would  please  you?"  said  the 
gracious  man,  who  loved  his  daughter  with  an 
especial  fondness  now  that  her  mother  was 
dead.  "  You  are  a  queer  girl." 

"  I  will  spend  the  money  wisely,  if  I  may 
have  it." 

"  But  what  will  the  young  man  you  are  to 
marry  think  of  a  simple  and  private  wedding, 
and  what  will  the  people  in  society  think,  who 
have  entertained  you?  " 

"  They  know  already  that  I  care  little  for 
parties  or  clubs.  Going  into  one  of  the 
'  Settlements '  and  seeing  how  the  poor  live 
cured  me  of  extravagance.  Why,  the  money 
spent  for  one  grand  party  would  make  one 
hundred  poor  people  comfortable  for  a  year !  " 
213 


214  A   NEW  KIND    OF   WEDDING. 

"  Well,  the  suppers  and  making  the  fine 
silks  give  employment  to  people,"  said  Mr. 
Strong. 

"  But  you  forget,  father,  how  much  further 
the  money  would  go  if  spent  otherwise.  A 
florist  receives  one  thousand  dollars  for  flow- 
ers. His  family  and  a  few  workmen  are 
benefited,  but  that  thousand  dollars  would 
keep  scores  of  families  from  starving  or  cold, 
if  properly  used.  Many,  unable  to  obtain 
work,  —  and  we  know  from  statistics  that  quite 
a  large  per  cent,  cannot  possibly  get  it, 
because  there  is  not  work  enough  for  all,  — 
would  be  cheered  and  kept  from  discourage- 
ment if  rent  could  be  paid  for  a  time,  or 
clothes  furnished,  or  coal  given,  or  comforts 
provided  in  sickness." 

"  Do  as  you  wish,  my  child.  You  shall 
have  the  money  to  spend  as  you  like.  I  fear, 
however,  that  the  world  will  call  you  peculiar. 
You  know  there  has  always  been  poverty  and 
always  will  be." 

"But  we  who  are  rich  have  duties  to  those 
who  are  not  so  fortunate.  I  learned  at  the 
'  Settlement '  how  the  luxuries  of  the  rich 


A  NEW  KIND    OF   WEDDING.  2  I  5 

make  the  poor  feel  discouraged  and  unhappy. 
They  work,  and  they  see  idlers  all  about 
them  who  are  haughty  when  they  should  be 
kind  and  courteous.  The  poor  see  many  of 
the  rich  waste  their  time  in  hunting  or  use- 
less pleasure.  They  see  people  living  for 
self,  with  no  thought  of  the  homeless  or  over- 
worked. They  see  clothes  thrown  away  or 
hoarded,  when  they  might  be  of  use  to  some- 
body." 

"  What  does  my  dear  Louise  wish  for  her 
wedding  day?  No  jewels  and  laces  and  rejoic- 
ing over  the  happy  event?  " 

"  Well,  let  us  see  how  much  I  can  save  to  use 
as  I  like.  I  prefer  to  be  married  quietly  in  our 
own  home,  with  only  a  few  friends  together.  I 
do  not  want  many  outside  presents,  for  people 
give  more  than  they  can  afford  generally,  and 
because  they  feel  that  social  customs  demand 
it.  The  flowers,  if  the  church  and  house  were 
elaborately  trimmed,  would  cost  a  thousand 
dollars,  the  supper  for  a  large  company  another 
thousand,  the  elegant  wardrobe,  which  I  do  not 
wish,  another  thousand.  Now  I  would  rather 
have  this  to  spend  for  myself." 


2l6  A   NEW  KIND    OF   WEDDING. 

"  You  shall  have  it,  daughter,  and  we  will  see 
how  you  will  spend  it.  You  will  be  the  talk  of 
Huntsville." 

Louise  Strong,  college  educated,  was  about 
to  marry  a  young  man  who  was  graduated  from 
the  same  class  as  herself.  He  had  wealth  and 
did  not  need  her  fortune ;  besides,  he  loved  her 
well  enough  to  let  her  decide  what  would  make 
her  happiest. 

Soon  after  leaving  college  she  entered  one . 
of  the  college  "  Settlements,"  partly  because 
some  of  her  friends  were  trying  the  experiment, 
and  partly  because  she  had  an  interest  in  those 
less  fortunate  than  herself.  She  found  it  true, 
indeed,  that  "  one-half  the  world  does  not  know 
how  the  other  half  lives." 

While  one  part  dressed  in  purple  and  fine 
linen  and  fared  sumptuously  every  day,  another 
had  scarcely  enough  to  eat  or  to  wear,  slept  on 
poor  beds  if  any,  with  insufficient  bedding  to 
keep  them  from  the  cold,  in  tumble-down  tene- 
ment houses,  with  high  rents  and  no  conven- 
iences. With  pinched  faces  and  oftentimes  bitter 
hearts  they  looked  on  the  showy  equipages, 
elegant  mansions,  and  extravagant  dresses  of 
many  of  the  rich. 


A  NEW  KIND   OF   WEDDING.  21 7 

True,  there  were  some  who,  either  because 
of  their  refined  tastes  or  Christian  principles, 
made  little  display,  and  gave  of  their  surplus  to 
bless  humanity,  but  the  majority  lived -for  self 
and  let  the  rest  of  the  world  struggle  as  it  might. 
They  would  not  take  on  responsibility,  and  in 
no  wise  regarded  themselves  as  holding  their 
property  in  trust  for  the  betterment  of  the 
world.  They  had  made  their  money  and  they 
would  spend  it  as  they  chose.  To  God  or  man 
they  did  not  feel  responsible.  Only  when  death 
came  did  they  begin  to  ask  if  life  had  been 
well  spent. 

Louise  Strong  had  gone  into  poor  homes  and 
cared  for  sick  children ;  she  had  given  sym- 
pathy and  money ;  she  had  read  to  weary  and 
lonely  persons ;  she  had  encouraged  the 
despondent,  tried  to  find  situations  for  those 
out  of  work,  helped  to  make  the  "  Settlement  " 
a  social  home  and  place  of  elevation  and  rest, 
and  learned,  best  of  all,  that  life  is  worse  than 
useless  unless  lived  for  the  sake  of  others. 

And  now  what  should  she  do  with  the  three 
thousand  dollars  that  were  to  be  spent  for  the 
wedding  if  she  did  not  use  them  in  charity? 


2l8  A   NEW  KIND    OF   WEDDING. 

There  were  so  many  ways  to  spend  it  that  one 
could  scarcely  select.  The  libraries  needed 
more  books ;  some  of  the  children  in  the  Sun- 
day School  of  her  church  needed  proper  cloth- 
ing; the  people  in  jails  ought  to  have  books 
and  papers ;  the  poor  who  hesitated  to  ask 
charity  because  it  was  so  often  grudgingly 
given  at  the  public  institutions,  and  often  to  the 
unworthy,  needed  coal  and  food  and  clothes ; 
many  boys  and  girls  longed  for  a  college  edu- 
cation and  were  helpless  in  getting  it ;  the 
colored  people  in  the  South  needed  education 
and  to  be  taught  industries ;  the  temperance 
cause  needed  money  and  workers.  How  should 
she  use  her  three  thousand  dollars? 

One  of  the  friends  she  had  made  at  the 
"  Settlement,"  Alice  Jameson,  had  often  said 
she  wished  she  could  visit  among  the  poor  and 
be  their  friend,  but  she  had  no  means.  Louise 
knew  that  personal  contact  with  human  beings 
is  the  best  way  to  improve  them.  She  went  to 
see  her  friend  Alice. 

"  I  have  a  proposition  to  make,"  she  said  to 
Alice.  "  I  can  have  the  money  for  my  wedding 
to  use  as  I  please.  How  would  you  like  to  be 


A  NEW  KIND    OF   WEDDING.  2 19 

my  missionary?  I  to  pay  you  a  salary,  and 
you  to  visit  in  your  own  field  and  tell  me  all 
the  needy  and  helpless,  so  that  you  and  I  can 
find  a  way  to  brighten  their  lives." 

"  I  should  be  more  delighted  than  you  can 
imagine,"  said  Alice.  "  Call  me  the  '  Louise 
Missionary.'  And  now,  as  the  cold  weather  is 
coming,  I  think  you  will  want  to  provide  me 
with  one  or  two  hundred  pairs  of  mittens  and 
warm  stockings,  and  perhaps  you  will  like  to 
use  some  of  the  money  in  Christmas  gifts  for 
those  who  rarely  have  presents." 

"  Capital,"  said  Louise.  "  And  I  have 
another  suggestion.  I  love  animals  so  much, 
dogs  and  horses  especially,  that  I  want  children 
taught  to  be  kind  to  them.  Let  us  put  two 
hundred  copies  of  '  Our  Dumb  Animals,'  each 
fifty  cents  a  year,  into  as  many  homes,  for 
nobody  can  read  that  paper  without  being 
kinder  all  his  life." 

Louise  Strong  was  married  quietly  to  one 
of  the  noblest  men  of  the  city,  and  Alice  Jame- 
son began  her  labor  of  love.  After  one  year  of 
work,  and  gifts  supplied  by  Louise,  of  course  a 
generous  father  and  husband  would  not  see  the 


22O  A   NEW  KIND    OF   WEDDING. 

enterprise  abandoned.  The  incidents  of  the 
next  few  years,  told  by  Alice  to  Louise,  the 
dying  cared  for,  children  saved  and  placed  in 
good  homes,  men  helped  and  women  cheered, 
would  fill  a  volume.  Louise,  thus  kept  in  touch 
with  the  world's  sorrow,  did  not  forget  and 
become  selfish.  How  many  lives  were  blessed 
with  that  wedding  money ! 


LOST    HIS     PLACE. 

are  sorry  to  let  you  go,  James,  but 
business  is  dull  and  we  must  cut 
down  expenses." 

The  speaker  was  the  head  of  a  hardware 
store,  a  man  not  unkind  in  nature,  but  who 
looked  at  business  purely  as  a  money-making 
matter.  Men  were  not  to  be  carried  over  a 
long  winter  if  there  was  no  need  for  their 
help. 

James  Leonard's  eyes  fell  on  the  paper  where 
he  was  writing  with  a  sadder  expression  than 
before,  but  he  said  nothing.  Both  of  his 
parents  were  dead.  He  was  not  strong  in 
body,  and  none  too  well  fitted  to  cope  with  the 
obstacles  one  meets  in  the  daily  struggle  for 
existence.  He  would,  of  course,  look  for  work, 
but  that  it  was  not  easy  to  find  he  had  proved 
when  attempting  to  get  a  situation  several 
months  before.  He  had  very  little  money 
saved  for  his  board,  for  wages  had  been  small. 
He  would  keep  his  inexpensive  room,  eat  but 

221 


222  LOST  HIS  PLACE. 

two  meals  a  day,  if  need  be,  and  hoped  his 
money  would  last  till  a  place  could  be  found. 

The  next  morning  he  started  out,  not  over- 
courageous,  but  determined  to  be  persevering. 
From  store  to  store,  from  office  to  office,  he 
asked  for  work,  and  received  the  same  old 
reply  —  "We  are  discharging  men,  rather 
than  hiring  new  ones."  Days  went  by  and 
grew  into  weeks.  He  came  home  hungry, 
cold,  and  tired.  There  was  nobody  to  confer 
with  or  to  cheer  him.  He  could  not  get  book- 
keeping—  that  was  hopeless.  He  would  take 
any  kind  of  work  that  could  be  obtained,  for 
his  money  was  growing  perilously  scant. 

Finally,  despite  his  delicate  appearance,  a 
man  hired  him  at  small  wages  at  heavy  out- 
door work.  As  might  have  been  expected,  his 
hands  were  soon  blistered,  insufficient  food  left 
him  with  little  strength,  and  he  broke  down 
from  the  labor. 

The  woman  at  whose  house  James  had  his 
room  cared  for  him  as  best  she  could,  but 
she  also  was  poor  and  could  not  long  provide 
for  him  without  remuneration.  He  must  have 
money  for  food  and  fuel.  He  could  not  go  to 


LOST  HIS  PLACE.  22$ 

the  poorhouse,  he  could  not  go  to  a  hospital 
while  half-way  able  to  work,  and  he  had  no 
relatives  upon  whom  he  could  depend. 

Resolutions  to  do  right  are  sometimes  broken 
when  everything  seems  against  a  person. 
James  was  cold  and  needed  an  overcoat.  Pos- 
sibly he  could  have  begged  one ;  possibly  not, 
for  the  world  is  not  over-generous  with  over- 
coats. He  saw  one  in  the  hall  of  a  house 
which  he  was  passing;  the  night  was  bitter 
cold  —  he  opened  the  unfastened  door,  stole 
the  coat,  and  hurried  away. 

He  was  restless  that  night  as  he  attempted  to 
sleep.  He  was  cold,  and  in  his  dreams  put  on 
an  overcoat  that  did  not  fit  him,  and  he  felt  ill 
at  ease.  As  he  wore  it  next  day,  though  it  was 
black,  he  thought  everybody  looked  at  it.  The 
owner  might  recognize  it  by  the  cut  of  the 
collar  or  the  sleeves.  He  was  not  happy,  but 
he  was  warm,  and  by  and  by,  as  he  walked,  he 
forgot  that  the  coat  was  not  really  his  own  and 
paid  for  with  his  own  money. 

He  could  find  nothing  to  do  in  the  city.  He 
could  go  out  into  the  suburbs;  perhaps  in  the 
homes  of  wealth  they  would  feel  neither  the 


224  LOST  HIS  PLACE. 

hard  tim'es  nor  the  need  for  retrenchment  in 
winter.  He  walked  all  day,  and  slept  in  a  barn 
at  night.  The  next  day  he  went  from  house  to 
house,  and  there  was  no  more  success  than 
before. 

As  night  came  on  he  passed  a  beautiful 
home  back  from  the  street,  where  the  windows 
were  lighted  and  all  seemed  inviting  and 
happy.  He  looked  in  at  the  window.  The 
daughter  of  the  house  sat  reading  in  the  cosey 
library,  and  a  servant  was  preparing  supper  in 
the  kitchen. 

He  walked  away,  and  then  went  back.  There 
must  be  a  good  deal  of  food  in  so  cheerful  a 
home,  and  he  needed  some.  He  had  asked  for 
food  before  this,  and  sometimes  a  kind  lady 
gave  him  hot  coffee  with  his  bread  and  butter, 
but  oftener  the  servants  refused. 

He  would  wait  till  later,  and  then,  unper- 
ceived,  he  would  enter  the  pantry  and  take 
what  he  needed  for  the  night  and  the  day  fol- 
lowing. It  was  cold  remaining  outside,  and  the 
hours  to  wait  seemed  very  long,  but  then  he 
was  used  to  waiting  for  everything.  There  was 
little  else  for  him  to  do  nowadays. 


LOST  HIS  PLACE.  22$ 

The  lights  were  turned  out  early,  for  there 
had  been  a  party  at  the  house  the  previous 
night.  He  lifted  the  slightly  fastened  kitchen 
window,  entered  the  pantry,  and  ate  what  food 
he  needed,  filling  his  pockets  for  the  next  day's 
use. 

He  was  going  away  when  something  bright 
gleamed  before  him.  It  was  a  basket  of  silver 
ready  to  be  put  into  the  safe,  but  carelessly  left 
for  the  morrow.  That,  if  sold,  would  give  him 
money  enough  to  last  the  winter  through. 

He  had  to  think  and  act  quickly.  Before  he 
had  time  to  argue  with  himself  the  right  or 
the  wrong  of  it  he  had  gathered  all  and  put  it 
into  a  satchel  close  at  hand.  The  satchel  was 
heavy,  but  he  hurried  away,  secreting  some  of 
it,  after  he  left  the  house,  near  or  partly  under  a 
stone  wall. 

He  feared  somebody  on  the  street  would 
hear  the  silver  rattle,  or  somebody  in  the  street- 
car would  hit  his  foot  against  it.  Every  eye 
seemed  upon  the  satchel,  and  he  was  glad  to 
get  out  of  the  car  and  take  it  to  a  pawn-shop. 
As  usual,  the  pawn-broker  beat  him  down  in  the 
price  of  the  silver.  He  knew  the  young  man's 


226  LOST  HIS  PLACE. 

necessities  and  offered  him  not  over  a  fifth 
of  its  value.  Young  Leonard  demurred,  but 
finally  took  the  money  and  hurried  away. 

Again  he  looked  for  work  and  found  some 
for  a  day  or  two.  He  used  his  money  care- 
fully, and  when  it  was  gone  went  stealthily 
to  the  hidden  place  by  the  wall,  dug  up  the 
silver,  and  took  it  to  the  pawn-broker.  The 
police  had  an  agreement  with  the  dealer  in 
stolen  goods,  and  when  Leonard  came  again 
to  sell  he  was  arrested,  tried,  and  sentenced 
to  prison. 

The  prison  years,  as  those  know  who  have 
tried  them,  went  by  painfully,  with  much  of 
depression,  much  of  good  resolutions,  much 
of  hopelessness,  much  of  weariness  and  mor- 
tification. When  James  Leonard  was  released 
he  determined  to  begin  life  anew.  He  had 
the  same  old  struggle  to  obtain  a  place,  but 
finally  succeeded  as  the  coachman  for  two 
ladies.  He  was  faithful,  honest,  and  greatly 
liked  by  them. 

One  day  a  policeman  recognized  him. 
"  Hello,  James,"  he  said,  "  glad  to  see  you  in 
a  good  home.  How  did  they  happen  to  take 


LOST  HIS  PLACE.  227 

you?  Did  they  know  you  had  been  in 
prison?  " 

"Oh,  no,  and  I  would  n't  have  them  for 
the  world !  They  would  n't  trust  me,  and 
would  turn  me  off." 

"  But  they  '11  find  it  out,  I  fear.  Better  be 
straight,  I  think.  I  would  tell  all  and  take 
my  chances.  If  they  hear  it  from  outside 
you  '11  be  sure  to  lose  your  place." 

The  next  persons  to  recognize  James  were 
two  servants,  who,  eager  to  be  the  bearer  of 
news,  told  the  cook  who  worked  in  the  same 
house  with  James.  To  her  a  prison  seemed 
an  awful  thing,  and  she  told  the  ladies.  They 
in  turn  told  James  they  feared  to  trust  a  man 
who  had  stolen,  and  discharged  him.  They 
did  not  stop  to  ask  themselves  where  the  man 
would  go  for  a  home  if  they  turned  him  away. 

The  old  result  happened.  James  searched 
for  a  situation,  did  not  succeed,  became  dis- 
couraged, was  without  funds,  stole,  and  again 
was  sent  to  prison. 

It  is  easy  to  say  that  James  Leonard  should 
have  been  strong  enough  to  resist  temptation. 
It  is  easy  to  say  that  all  men  and  women  can 


228  LOST  HIS  PLACE. 

find  places  if  they  try  long  enough.  At 
the  same  time,  there  is  a  responsibility  resting 
upon  the  employer  of  labor  when  of  necessity 
a  man  loses  his  position.  To  be  our  brother's 
keeper  is  a  vital  point  in  a  Christian  com- 
munity. 


STRUCK    IT   RICH. 

"  TT  'S  no  use,  Martha,"  said  Asa  Scranton  to 

*-  his  wife,  as  he  came  in  from  the  street, 
tired  and  discouraged.  "  I  've  tried  day  after 
day  for  a  job,  and  I  've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  and  the  children  are  better  off  without 
me  than  with  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  Asa !  "  responded  the  pale,  thin 
woman,  who  was  cooking  dinner  for  some 
workingmen  who  boarded  with  her.  "  We 
shall  see  better  days." 

But  her  words  only  were  hopeful ;  the  voice 
showed  the  weariness  of  one  who  was  almost 
tired  of  the  daily  struggle. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is.  I  Ve  worked  hard 
from  a  boy.  The  grocery  business  did  n't  pay, 
though  I  never  left  the  store  till  the  last  man 
had  gone  home.  Then  the  builder  I  worked 
for  failed,  and  I  lost  several  months'  wages.  I 
guess  I  'm  unlucky.  We  had  quite  a  bit  of 
money  when  we  married,  didn't  we,  Martha? 
And  I  never  supposed  you  would  come  to  such 
229 


230  STRUCK  IT  RICH. 

hard  work  as  this.  My  debts  have  hung  like 
a  millstone  about  my  neck.  They  all  say : 
'  Asa  Scranton,  you  're  a  good  fellow.  You  '11 
pay  principal  and  interest,'  and  never  think 
that  a  wife  and  children  have  need  for  food  and 
clothing.  Sometimes  I  've  a  mind  to  run  away, 
and  I  would  if  I  didn't  hate  a  coward.  I  can't 
stand  seeing  you  so  pale  and  hopeless-like. 
I  'd  like  to  try  the  mines  —  maybe  I  'd  strike  it 
rich." 

"  Oh,  Asa,  don't  think  of  such  a  thing  !  Only 
the  few  make  any  money  in  mines,  and  most 
are  poor  to  the  end  of  their  days.  Keep  up 
courage.  The  children  are  getting  larger,  and 
better  days  are  coming." 

"  That 's  the  old  story,  Martha.  Things  are 
not  very  even  in  this  world,  but  I  don't  com- 
plain. If  I  had  work  I  would  n't  care  how  rich 
other  folks  are.  But  just  think,  Martha !  If  I 
strike  a  mine,  as  some  people  have,  how  good 
it  would  seem  for  you  to  have  a  silk  dress,  and 
Alice  a  hat  with  a  feather,  like  the  little  girl  on 
the  hill.  I  always  wanted  John  to  go  to  col- 
lege, seeing  that  his  father  could  n't  go.  He 
maybe  would  be  more  lucky  than  I  have 
been." 


STRUCK  IT  RICH.  23! 

While  Martha  Scranton  mended  by  the  open 
fireplace  that  evening,  Asa  sat  still  and  thought 
—  dreamed  dreams,  half  wildly  perhaps,  of 
better  days  to  come.  They  would  never  come 
in  his  present  poverty.  He  would  make  one 
last  venture.  His  family  could  live  without 
him,  for  his  wife  for  some  time  had  earned  all 
the  money  which  they  used. 

He  was  not  an  indolent  man,  not  a  man  who 
lacked  ability,  but,  like  thousands  of  others, 
he  seemed  to  be  in  the  current  of  failure,  and 
was  drifting  down  the  stream  to  despair.  He 
dreamed  about  the  mines  of  Colorado  that 
night  as  he  slept,  and  during  the  many  waking 
hours  planned  how  he  could  reach  the  favored 
land.  He  could  sell  his  silver  watch,  and  pawn 
his  overcoat,  even  if  the  coming  winter  pinched 
him  with  cold. 

By  morning  he  had  decided.  He  ate  break- 
fast quietly;  patted  little  John  upon  the  head, 
with  a  look  of  unusual  pathos  in  his  blue  eyes; 
told  Martha  that  he  was  going  out  to  look  for 
work ;  obtained  what  little  money  he  could  ; 
hurried  down  the  street  to  the  station,  wiping, 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  the  tears  from  his 


232  STRUCK  IT  RICH. 

cheeks  as  he  looked  only  once  toward  his  home  ; 
and  took  the  train  for  the  mines. 

For  days  he  ate  little,  hoarding  every  cent 
to  keep  him  from  starvation  till  he  should 
find  work.  At  Granite  Camp,  on  the  side  of 
the  mountain,  all  was  bustle  and  confusion. 
The  varied  machinery,  the  eager  miners,  the 
enthusiasm,  the  warm-hearted  familiarity,  —  all 
excited  Asa.  He  was  ready  for  any  kind  of 
work,  and  soon  found  it.  Mining  was  hard, — 
no  work  is  easy,  —  but  he  would  earn  and  save, 
and  later  prospect  for  himself,  get  hold  of 
claims,  and  "strike  it  rich." 

Weeks  and  months  passed.  No  letter  came 
from  Martha,  for  she  did  not  know  where  Asa 
had  gone.  She  wept  when  she  found  that  she 
was  left  alone  —  wept  with  that  half-deadened 
sense  of  loss  which  persons  feel  who  have  had 
the  cheer  of  life  taken  out  of  them  by  the  blows 
of  circumstance. 

Asa  had  been  kind  to  her  and  the  children, 
but  in  these  days  she  had  little  time  to  think  of 
love  or  loss,  for  work  was  never-ending,  and 
rent  and  fuel  were  certainties.  So  she  toiled 
on,  and  guessed  that  he  had  gone  to  seek  his 


STRUCK  IT  RICH.  233 

fortune  in  the  mines,  and  clothed  the  children 
as  well  as  she  could,  and  sewed  and  washed 
and  prayed  and  waited. 

Years  came  and  went.  Asa  Scranton  in  the 
mines  and  Martha  Scranton  at  home  were 
growing  older.  The  miners  liked  Asa,  though 
he  joined  little  in  their  merry-making,  and  got 
the  name  of  being  miserly.  They  could  not 
know  that  he  was  saving  his  money  to  make 
Martha  rich.  Sometimes,  when  he  had  earned 
money  enough  to  work  a  claim,  and  had  gotten 
other  parties  interested,  he  dug  for  treasure, 
but  always  failed.  Then  the  hole  was  left  in 
the  mountain,  and  Asa  went  back  to  his  daily 
digging  m  the  mines. 

His  hair  grew  grayer  and  his  form  bent. 
He  would  write  Martha  and  Alice  and  John 
when  he  had  made  his  fortune,  but  not  now. 
He  lived  alone  in  his  little  shanty,  often  weary, 
always  lonely,  "  forever  unlucky,"  as  he  said, 
but  still  hoping  that  better  days  would  come. 
Every  spare  moment  he  searched  the  moun- 
tains, till  it  was  common  talk  that  Asa  Scran- 
ton knew  every  vein  of  silver  and  lead  in  the 
surrounding  country.  He  would  make  one  last 


234  STRUCK  IT  RICH. 

effort.  He  had  been  to  one  spot  stealthily, 
from  time  to  time,  where,  from  the  surface  ore, 
he  felt  sure  of  success. 

But  how  could  he  interest  capital?  He  had 
failed  in  other  projects,  and  the  world  did  not 
believe  in  him.  In  vain  he  besought  men  to 
join  him.  He  hoarded  his  money,  grew  thin 
from  lack  of  food,  dressed  in  ragged  clothes, 
and  still  dreamed  of  future  success. 

Finally  a  little  money  was  put  into  the  vent- 
ure, but  no  veins  worth  working  were  found. 
Asa  was  sure  they  would  win  if  they  probed 
further  into  the  mountain.  He  labored  with 
men  in  and  out  of  camp  to  put  in  more  money. 
The  miners  said  he  was  crazy.  He  certainly 
was  cold  and  hungry,  and  well  nigh  frenzied. 

At  last  he  found  a  German,  Hans  Bochert, 
who,  like  himself,  had  struggled  for  years,  had 
lost  and  won,  —  with  many  losings  to  one  win- 
ning, —  but  who,  out  of  pity  for  the  old  miner, 
gave  nearly  his  last  dollar  to  push  on  the  work. 

Asa  seemed  in  a  half  delirium.  He  would 
not  leave  the  place  day  or  night.  Cold  or  rain 
did  not  deter  him,  though  he  seemed  ill  and 
broken.  Finally  the  good  news  came  that  a 


STRUCK  IT  RICH.  235 

big  body  of  ore  was  struck.  Asa  Scranton's 
face  gleamed  as  though  the  full  sunlight  poured 
upon  it.  "  I  'm  going  to  my  shanty  to  write  to 
Martha,"  he  said,  and  hurried  away.  He  did 
not  come  back  in  the  morning,  and  Hans 
Bochert  and  the  other  men  hastened  over  to 
know  the  reason. 

Asa  sat  in  his  chair  with  the  same  halo  about 
his  face  —  dead  from  an  excess  of  joy.  On  a 
paper,  on  the  little  table,  was  the  letter  he  had 
begun  to  write  to  Martha  Scranton  at  Fairport: 
"  Darling  Wife  :  I  have  struck  it  rich,  and  you 
and  the  children  "  — 

The  pen  had  fallen  from  his  hand. 


FOOD   AT   THE    DOOR. 

"  T~\ON'T    feed   him,  because  others  will    be 

••— ^  sure  to  come." 

The  speaker  was  a  handsome  woman  who 
sat  at  dinner  with  her  husband  in  one  of  the 
beautiful  homes  of  C.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
rich  garnet  satin,  with  a  bunch  of  yellow  chrys- 
anthemums at  her  throat,  which  accorded  with 
the  dark  garnet  leather  of  the  carved  furniture. 

All  had  gone  well  with  Mrs.  Heatherstone. 
Her  husband,  with  hair  prematurely  gray  from 
his  hard  financial  struggles,  had  become  rich, 
and  his  wife  and  only  son  were  spending  the 
money  in  fine  clothes  and  stylish  equipages. 

A  servant  had  just  come  in  to  say  that  an 
old  man  was  at  the  door  who  had  had  nothing 
to  eat  all  day,  and  to  ask  if  she  should  give 
him  a  supper. 

Mrs.  Heatherstone  reiterated  her  old  rule, 
not  to  feed  anybody  at  the  door,  lest  other  poor 

people  be  told  of  it,  and  the  family  be  annoyed 
236 


FOOD  AT   THE  DOOR. 

with  tramps.  "  We  never  give  anything  at  the 
door,"  she  was  wont  to  say,  and  so  in  process 
of  time  poor  people  generally  passed  by  the 
Heatherstone  mansion,  and  she  was  glad  of  it. 

The  poor  old  man  of  to-night  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  well-filled  table  as  he  passed 
the  window,  and  he  felt  hurt  and  bitter  at  fate. 
He  was  not  a  drinking  man,  but  he  had  lost 
his  property  by  reverses,  his  wife  and  children 
were  dead,  he  was  unable  to  do  hard  labor, 
and  he  could  rarely  find  work  that  was  light 
or  heavy.  There  was  not  work  enough  for 
all,  and  the  young  and  vigorous  obtained  what 
there  was. 

The  old  man  slept  in  a  shed  that  night,  and 
dreamed  of  the  elegant  home  and  the  hand- 
some lady  in  the  garnet  dress. 

"  I  think  you  might  have  given  him  a  sup- 
per," said  Mark  Heatherstone,  a  boy  of  six- 
teen, with  a  kind  heart,  but  lacking  a  strong 
will,  and  who  had  already  caused  his  parents 
some  solicitude. 

"  When  once  you  begin,  there  is  no  end  of 
it,"  said  the  mother.  "  Let  him  go  to  the 
Associated  Charities  or  to  some  soup-house." 


238  FOOD  AT    THE  DOOR. 

"  But  he  will  have  a  heavy  heart  to-night, 
besides  being  hungry,"  said  the  youth. 

"  I  can't  take  care  of  all  the  suffering  in  the 
world,  so  I  shut  my  eyes  to  it.  We  must 
enjoy  ourselves,  and  leave  some  money  for 
you  also." 

"  I  don't  mind  much  about  that,"  said  the 
boy,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  hardships  of 
life,  "  but  I  'd  do  a  little  good  as  I  went  along." 

Mother  and  son  did  not  think  alike  about 
many  things,  and  after  a  time  the  lad  left  his 
home  and  disappeared  from  the  town. 

His  parents  were  of  course  distressed  beyond 
measure.  They  searched  and  searched  in  vain. 
Mrs.  Heatherstone,  with  all  her  selfishness  and 
lack  of  wisdom  in  rearing  her  son,  was  exceed- 
ingly fond  of  him.  His  absence  aged  her,  and 
when  after  some  years  he  did  not  return,  the 
fine  house  and  elegant  clothes  lost  their  attrac- 
tion. The  habit  of  giving,  however,  is  usually 
a  growth  from  early  life,  and  closed  hands  do 
not  unclose  easily  as  we  grow  older. 

Once  away  from  his  home,  Mark  Heather- 
stone  was  too  proud  to  go  back,  if  indeed  he 
ever  wished  to  do  so.  He  soon  spent  what 


FOOD  AT   THE  DOOR.  239 

money  he  had  brought  away  with  him,  and  then 
learned  the  hard  lessons  of  poverty.  He  looked 
for  work,  occasionally  found  some,  but  oftener 
was  penniless,  and,  like  the  old  man  who  had 
besought  alms  at  his  father's  house,  slept  in 
sheds  or  in  barns.  The  increasing  habit  of 
drink  fastened  upon  him,  and  exposure  under- 
mined his  health. 

Early  a  broken-down  man,  he  determined  to 
go  back  to  his  native  town,  and  perhaps  seek 
again  the  home  he  had  abandoned.  He  stole  a 
ride  on  a  freight  train  and  reached  the  city  just 
as  the  evening  lamps  were  being  lighted.  A 
cold  sleet  was  falling. 

He  was  faint  from  lack  of  food,  and  excited 
with  the  thought  of  the  old  times  of  boyhood 
and  a  possible  glad  reception  at  his  home.  He 
found  the  house,  passed  it,  and  saw  his  father 
and  mother  at  supper.  He  went  up  the  street 
and  then  returned,  going  to  the  back  door  and 
asking  for  food. 

"  We  never  give  anything  at  the  door,"  said 
the  well-instructed  servant,  and  shut  it  in  his 
face.  He  walked  away.  The  impulse  was 
strong  to  go  back  and  say  that  the  long-lost 


240  FOOD  AT   THE  DOOR. 

son  had  returned.  He  hesitated,  turned  his 
face  back  towards  home,  walked  up  the  fa- 
miliar pathway  to  the  front  door,  raised  his 
hand  to  ring  the  bell,  became  dizzy,  and  fell 
heavily  on  the  porch. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heatherstone  were  startled  at 
the  sound.  "  What  has  happened,  husband?" 
she  said,  and  both  hastened  to  the  door.  "  Oh, 
Mark,  Mark !  "  exclaimed  the  mother,  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  face  of  her  apparently  dead 
son.  He  was  carried  into  the  best  apartment 
and  a  physician  summoned. 

"  It  is  a  heart  attack  and  he  will  rally,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  but  his  living  is  only  a  question  of 
time." 

When  Mark  was  partially  restored  to  his  for- 
mer self  he  told  of  the  struggles  he  had  been 
through,  of  some  kindness  and  much  indiffer- 
ence and  hardness,  even  being  turned  away 
in  the  rain  from  his  mother's  door  because  he 
asked  for  food.  "That  nearly  broke  my  heart, 
mother,"  he  said.  "  Don't  let  man  or  dog  or 
cat  go  away  from  your  door  hungry.  Who 
knows  but  they  will  die  upon  somebody's 
doorstep?  " 


FOOD  AT   THE  DOOR.  241 

Mrs.  Heatherstone  grew  tenderer  with  the 
coming  months,  and  when  Mark  passed  away 
she  was  a  changed  woman.  She  had  been  made 
unselfish  through  a  great  sorrow. 


HOW   THE    DOG   TAX   WAS    PAID. 

r  I  "WO  little  children,  Annie  and  James,  were 
-*•  picking  up  stray  pieces  of  coal  near  the 
railroad,  to  carry  to  a  very  poor  home.  Sud- 
denly they  espied  a  black  lump  that  looked  like 
coal,  only  it  moved.  With  childish  curiosity 
they  crept  towards  it  and  found  a  thin,  fright- 
ened, hungry  dog  that  had  been  crippled  and 
beaten  by  boys. 

"Do  you  dare  touch  her?"  said  the  girl  of 
nine  years.  "She  might  bite." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jimmie,  a  rugged  and  alert 
little  fellow  of  seven.  "  See,  she  wags  her  short 
tail,  and  I  guess  she  wants  to  go  home  with  us." 

"  But  mother  could  n't  take  care  of  her,  we  're 
so  poor,  and  baby  Ned  and  Willie  have  to  eat 
and  have  clothes." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  give  her  some  of  my  bread  and 
milk  every  night,  and  Mrs.  Martin  next  door 
will  give  her  bones,  I  guess.  She  has  n't  any 

boy  and  she  is  good  to  me." 
242 


HOW    THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAW.         243 

The  girl  put  her  ringers  carefully  along  the 
black  dog's  forehead,  and  the  animal  pushed 
her  cold  nose  against  the  child's  hand  and 
licked  it.  She  was  not  used  to  kind  voices, 
and  a  girl's  fingers  upon  her  head  gave  her 
courage.  She  half  rose  to  her  feet,  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  and  seemed  to  say,  "  I  will  go 
with  you  if  you  will  only  take  me." 

"  I  would  n't  pick  her  up,  Jimmie ;  she  '11  fol- 
low us." 

"  She  can't  walk  much,"  said  the  boy,  "  but 
I  '11  help  her  over  the  bad  places  if  you  '11  carry 
the  basket  of  coal." 

The  dog  seemed  to  realize  the  conversation, 
for  when  the  coal  was  ready  to  be  moved,  she 
was  also  ready,  and  hobbled  on  after  the 
children. 

"You  must  be  tired,  poor  thing!  "  said  Jim- 
mie, taking  her  up  as  they  crossed  a  muddy 
street,  and  thereby  getting  his  torn  jacket 
stained  from  her  hurt  back  and  bleeding  foot. 

The  dog  nestled  up  to  him  and  seemed 
happy.  When  they  reached  home  Jimmie  ran 
ahead,  showing  his  poor  bruised  friend  to  his 
mother. 


244         HOW    THE   DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID. 

"  Why,  Jimmie,  what  can  you  do  with  a 
dog?" 

"  Keep  her  to  play  with,  and  to  guard  the 
house  when  you  are  away  washing." 

"  I  don't  know  how  we  '11  feed  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Conlon,  who  looked  about  as  poor  as  the 
dog,  "  but  we  '11  try.  We  can  keep  her  warm 
anyway  if  you  '11  pick  up  enough  coal." 

"  We  shall  love  her  so,"  said  the  boy,  "  and 
the  baby  will  play  with  her  when  she  gets  well. 
Let 's  call  her  'Pet,'  because  we  never  have  any- 
thing to  play  with." 

The  dog  crawled  behind  the  stove  and  closed 
her  eyes,  as  though  thankful  for  a  place  to  rest, 
where  at  least  boys  would  not  throw  stones, 
and  men  would  not  kick  her  with  their  rough 
boots. 

Days  and  weeks  went  by.  The  black  dog, 
though  not  having  a  great  supply  of  food,  was 
living  like  a  prince  compared  with  the  starva- 
tion of  the  street.  Her  bruises  healed,  her  coat 
became  blacker  and  her  eyes  brighter.  She  was 
indeed  the  baby's  pet,  and  the  idol  of  the  other 
children.  She  went  with  Annie  and  Jimmie  as 
they  gathered  coal.  She  slept  on  the  floor  be- 


HOW   THE  DOG    TAX   WAS  PAID.          245 

side  their  humble  bed  at  night,  and  guarded  the 
household  when  the  mother  was  absent.  She 
shared  their  food,  and  would  have  returned 
their  kindness  with  her  life  if  need  be.  The 
whole  family  were  happier  and  kinder  since  she 
came  into  it,  as  is  always  the  case  when  a  pet 
animal  is  in  the  home. 

Though  poverty  was  a  constant  guest  at  the 
Conlon  abode,  with  its  bare  floors,  poor  clothes, 
and  common  fare,  yet  they  were  not  unhappy. 
The  mother  worked  too  hard  to  philosophize 
much  about  circumstances,  and  the  children 
were  too  young  to  realize  what  was  before  them 
of  struggle.  A  cloud  was  coming,  and  a  man's 
hand  brought  it.  It  was  the  arrival  of  the  tax- 
gatherer. 

A  high  official  in  the  State  found  that  the 
treasury  was  low,  and  decided  that  money  must 
be  raised  in  some  way.  Of  course  it  was  gen- 
erally conceded  that  the  liquor  traffic  caused  so 
much  of  the  poverty,  crime,  and  sorrow  that  it 
would  be  wise  to  make  it  pay  for  some  of  its 
evil  results.  This  was  a  difficult  matter,  how- 
ever, as  saloon  keepers  and  their  customers 
had  votes.  Corporations  could  be  taxed  more 


246         HOW   THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID, 

heavily,  but  corporations  sometimes  paid  money 
to  help  carry  elections. 

There  was  at  least  one  class  that  had  no 
votes,  and  consequently  little  influence.  Dogs 
could  therefore  be  taxed.  The  rich  could  easily 
pay  the  tax,  and  if  the  poor  could  not,  their 
dogs  could  be  killed.  Who  stopped  to  think 
whether  money  raised  through  the  sorrow  of  the 
poor,  or  the  death  of  helpless  animals,  might 
prove  a  bane  rather  than  a  blessing?  Who 
asked  whether  a  dog  did  not  love  life  as  well  as 
his  master,  and  whether,  for  his  devotion  and 
courage  and  guarding  of  homes,  he  was  not 
entitled  to  the  consideration  of  the  city  and  the 
State,  rather  than  to  be  killed  because  his  owner 
could  not  or  did  not  pay  a  tax  or  a  license  fee? 
The  dog  had  done  no  wrong,  and  though  some- 
body loved  him,  as  he  could  not  earn  the  fee 
himself  he  must  needs  be  destroyed. 

The  tax-gatherer,  endowed  with  power  by  the 
officials,  came  to  the  Conlon  home.  There  was 
little  that  could  be  taken  from  so  poor  a  place, 
thought  the  collector,  until  he  espied  the  black  dog 
beside  the  baby's  cradle.  "Your  dog,  madam, 
must  be  paid  for.  The  fee  is  five  dollars." 


HOW    THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID.         247 

"  I  have  n't  the  money,"  said  the  woman. 
"  Why,  I  could  n't  raise  so  much  !  I  can  hardly 
fill  these  four  mouths  with  food." 

"  Well,  madam,  then  you  should  n't  keep  a 
dog." 

"  But  she  guards  the  children  while  I  work, 
and  she  is  such  a  comfort  to  them !  " 

"  The  law  does  n't  take  sentiment  into  the  ac- 
count. If  you  were  a  man  I  should  arrest  you, 
and  shoot  the  dog.  As  it  is,  I  will  only  shoot 
the  dog.  Bring  the  animal  out  and  I  will  call 
that  policeman  over." 

''You  would  n't  shoot  her  before  these  crying 
children?"  —  for  three  of  them  had  begun  to 
cry,  and  were  clasping  the  dog  to  their  hearts, 
while  the  baby  looked  scared,  and  pressed  his 
lips  together,  as  though  he  realized  that  some- 
thing was  wrong. 

"  As  I  said  before,  madam,  the  law  has  no 
regard  for  sentiment.  The  State  must  have 
money." 

"  I  wish  they  would  tax  the  saloons.  If  my 
husband  had  n't  lost  his  money  in  them  before 
he  died  we  should  have  the  money  now  to  pay 
the  tax  for  our  dog.  Could  you  wait  a  little  for 


248         nO  W   THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID. 

the  money?  I  can  give  you  a  dollar,  and  per- 
haps I  can  borrow  another,  but  I  can't  possibly 
raise  five  dollars.  Can  you  come  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  I  '11  give  you  a  trial,  but  it 's  a  long 
walk  here.  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  turn  the  dog  on 
the  street  and  then  say  you  have  n't  any." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  we  are  not  as  mean  as  that,  even 
if  we  are  poor !  Pet  would  suffer  and  perhaps 
starve,  and  we  all  love  her  too  much  for  that." 

After  the  man  was  gone  Mrs.  Conlon  put  on 
her  faded  shawl  and  bonnet  and  went  to  her 
neighbors,  as  poor  as  herself.  One  loaned  her 
a  quarter,  another  a  half,  till  the  whole  dollar 
was  secured. 

When  the  assessor  came  on  the  following  day, 
being  somewhat  impressed  by  the  devotion  of 
both  family  and  dog,  he  took  the  two  dollars 
and  promised  to  wait  a  reasonable  time  for  the 
remaining  three. 

Various  plans  were  talked  over  in  the  Conlon 
home  for  the  raising  of  the  extra  money. 
There  was  comparatively  little  work  to  be  ob- 
tained, rent  must  be  met  or  they  would  be 
turned  upon  the  street,  and  there  were  five 
mouths  to  feed  besides  that  of  Pet. 


HOW   THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID.         249 

Jimmie  declared  that  a  letter  to  the  Governor 
of  the  State  ought  to  do  good,  and  Annie  should 
write  it.  Accordingly  a  sheet  of  paper  and  an 
envelope  were*  procured  that  very  afternoon, 
and  a  letter  was  penned  to  that  official.  It 
read  as  follows: 

"DEAR  MR.  GOVERNOR: 

"  We  have  a  beautiful  [this  was  a  stretch  of  the 
imagination]  black  dog  that  we  found  sick  and 
hurt,  and  we  love  her  dearly,  but  can't  pay  the 
tax  of  five  dollars.  Mother  works,  and  I  take 
care  of  the  children,  but  I  can't  earn  any  money 
for  poor  dear  Pet.  The  police  have  killed  lots 
of  dogs  on  our  street.  One  belonged  to  Mamie 
Fisher,  my  best  friend,  and  we  went  together 
and  found  him  in  a  pile  of  dogs,  all  dead. 
Mamie  took  him  up  in  her  arms  and  cried 
dreadfully.  I  helped  her  carry  him,  and  we 
dug  a  grave  in  their  little  yard  and  buried  him, 
and  we  took  five  cents  that  a  lady  gave  me  and 
bought  two  roses  and  laid  on  his  grave.  He 
was  a  big  yellow  puppy,  and  was  so  kind. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Governor,  would  you  be  willing 
to  lend  us  three  dollars  till  we  can  earn  it,  and 


250         HOW   THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID. 

pay  you  back?  She  has  two  dollars  already. 
We  wish  there  was  n't  any  tax  on  dogs,  for  they 
make  us  poor  children  so  happy.  Perhaps  you 
can  stop  the  law. 

"  Yours  most  respectful, 

"ANNIE    CONLON." 

All  pronounced  this  a  proper  letter,  and  Jim- 
mie  dropped  it  into  the  mail-box.  All  the  fam- 
ily waited  prayerfully  for  the  answer. 

The  Governor  was  touched  as  he  read  this 
letter  from  a  child.  "  I  will  give  her  the  three 
dollars,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  I  did  n't  sup- 
pose the  enforcement  of  a  dog  tax  would  bring 
so  much  sorrow  to  little  hearts  and  large  ones 
too.  I  really  wish  there  were  no  tax  on  dogs, 
for  they  are  helpless  creatures  and  most  faithful 
friends  to  man.  But  the  State  needs  money." 

"Try  to  get  the  tax  law  repealed,"  said  the 
wife.  "  There  are  plenty  of  ways  to  raise  money 
to  pay  the  expenses  of  a  great  State  without  kill- 
ing dogs.  The  tax  law  is  directly  responsible 
for  thousands  of  dogs  being  turned  upon  the 
street  to  starve:  they  become  ill  from  hunger 
and  thirst,  are  supposed  to  be  mad,  and  then 


HOW   THE  DOG    TAX    WAS  PAID.         25! 

suffer  untold  misery  and  even  death  from 
thoughtless  and  excited  crowds.  I  would  have 
no  part  in  enforcing  such  a  law,  and  would  help 
to  wipe  it  from  the  statute  books." 

"  But  some  of  the  farmers  have  their  sheep 
killed  by  dogs,  and  they  must  have  their  losses 
made  up  to  them,"  said  the  Governor. 

"  Let  the  town  pay  for  the  sheep  which  are 
killed,  and  not  cause  the  death  of  thousands  of 
innocent  dogs  because  a  few  have  done  wrong," 
replied  the  wife. 

The  money  was  sent  to  Annie  Conlon,  and 
there  was  thanksgiving  in  the  plain  home.  Pet 
wagged  her  short  tail,  and  looked  upr  into 
Annie's  eyes,  as  though  she  understood  that 
her  life  had  been  spared  by  those  three  dollars. 


THE  .STORY    OF    DOUGLAS. 

T^VOUGLAS  was  a  shaggy  black  puppy,  one 
•"-^'  of  a  family  of  eleven,  all  of  them  yellow 
and  white  but  himself.  His  fur,  when  you 
pushed  it  apart,  showed  its  yellow  color  near 
the  skin,  revealing  what  he  really  was,  —  a  St. 
Bernard. 

He  was  the  most  gentle  of  all  the  puppies, 
and  would  not  fight  his  way  at  the  dish  when 
the  others  clamored  for  their  bread  and  milk, 
but  stood  apart  and  looked  u  p  to  his  mistress 
with  a  beseeching  and  sometimes  aggrieved 
air.  From  the  first  he  seemed  to  hunger  for 
human  affection,  and  would  cry  to  be  held  in 
one's  lap,  or  follow  one  about  the  house  or  the 
grounds  like  a  petted  kitten. 

When  quarrels  took  place  between  some 
members  of  the  large  family  Douglas  never 
joined,  but  hastened  to  tell  it  by  his  bark,  that 
the  disturbance  might  be  quelled.  When 
finally  the  puppies  went  to  various  homes 

Douglas  became  the   property  of  a  lady  who, 
252 


THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  253 

not  having  children,  loved  him  almost  as  a 
child. 

He  followed  her  up  and  down  stairs  and  lay 
at  her  feet  if  she  read.  The  house  was  well 
furnished,  but  not  too  good  to  be  used  and 
enjoyed.  Douglas  was  not  put  out  of  doors  at 
night  to  whine  in  the  rain  or  sleet,  or  even  into 
a  barn,  and  wisely,  for  he  saved  the  house  once 
from  very  unwelcome  intruders. 

He  gambolled  beside  his  mistress  if  she 
walked  in  the  woods,  and  when  she  was  ill  he 
was  constantly  at  her  bedside,  refusing  to  eat, 
and  seeming  to  suffer  in  her  suffering.  When 
she  was  unavoidably  absent  Douglas  cried  and 
walked  the  floor,  and  if  allowed  to  go  out  of 
doors  howled  and  waited  on  the  hillside  for 
her  return. 

Once  when  at  the  sea-shore  he  followed 
her  without  her  knowledge,  and  plunged  into 
the  bay  after  her  steamer.  He  swam  till  well- 
nigh  exhausted,  his  agonized  owner  fearing 
every  minute  that  he  would  sink,  while  she 
besought  the  men  to  stop  the  boat.  Finally  he 
was  rescued,  and  though  he  could  scarcely 
move  the  glad  look  in  his  eyes  and  the  wag  of 


254  THE    STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

his  tail  told  as  plainly  as  words  the  joy  of  the 
reunion. 

No  amount  of  money  could  buy  the  com- 
panionable creature.  He  never  wearied  one  by 
talk ;  he  never  showed  anger,  perhaps  because 
no  one  spoke  angrily  to  him.  Some  persons 
like  to  show  authority,  even  over  a  dog,  and 
talk  loud  and  harsh,  but  Douglas's  owner  was 
too  wise  and  too  good  for  this.  Kindness 
begot  kindness,  and  the  puppy  who  longed  for 
love  appreciated  it  none  the  less  when  he  was 
grown,  and  could  protect  the  woman  who  loved 
him. 

One  autumn  day,  just  before  leaving  her 
country  home  for  the  city,  Miss  Benson  was 
obliged  to  return  to  town  for  a  half  day. 
"  Good-by,  dear  Douglas,"  she  said  in  her 
usual  way.  "  I  shall  come  home  soon,"  and 
the  unwilling  creature  followed  her  with  his 
brown  eyes,  and  whined  that  he  could  not  go 
also.  Later  in  the  afternoon  he  was  let  out  of 
doors,  and  soon  disappeared. 

When  Miss  Benson  returned  her  first  word 
was,  "  Douglas  !  Douglas  !  "  but  there  was  no 
response  to  her  call.  He  had  followed  her,  had 


THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  255' 

lost  the  trail,  and  had  gone  too  far  to  find  his 
way  back  to  his  home.  In  vain  she  called  for 
her  pet.  She  left  the  door  ajar,  hoping  at 
nightfall  she  should  hear  the  patter  of  his  feet, 
or  his  eager  bark  to  come  in,  but  he  did  not 
come.  She  wondered  where  he  slept,  if  he 
slept  at  all;  thought  a  dozen  times  in  the  night 
that  she  heard  him  crying  at  the  door;  imag- 
ined him  moaning  for  her,  or,  supperless  and 
exhausted,  lying  down  by  the  roadside,  to  wait 
for  the  sunrise  to  begin  his  fruitless  journey. 

Douglas  had  become  that  sad  thing,  a  lost 
dog.  He  belonged  to  nobody  now,  and  both 
owner  and  dog  were  desolate.  Miss  Benson 
could  scarcely  go  about  her  work.  She  spent 
days  in  searching,  and  hired  others  to  search, 
but  all  was  useless.  For  weeks  she  thought 
Douglas  might  possibly  come  back.  If  she 
could  know  that  he  was  dead,  that  even  would 
be  a  consolation ;  but  to  fear  he  was  cold  and 
hungry,  to  realize  that  the  world  is  all  too  indif- 
ferent to  animals,  unless  perchance  they  are 
our  own,  to  imagine  he  might  be  in  some  medi- 
cal college,  the  victim  of  the  surgeon's  knife, 
—  all  this  was  bitter  in  the  extreme.  Weeping 


THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

and  searching  did  no  good,  and  finally  the 
inevitable  had  to  be  accepted,  though  the  sad- 
ness in  Miss  Benson's  heart  did  not  fade  out. 

As  is  ever  the  case,  those  of  us  who  have 
lost  something  precious  become  more  tender 
and  helpful  in  a  world  full  of  losses.  Miss  Ben- 
son welcomed  and  cared  for  every  stray  animal 
that  she  found,  perhaps  never  quite  giving  up 
the  hope  that  she  would  see  gentle,  great- 
hearted Douglas  again. 

And  what  of  Douglas?  He  ran  fast  at  first, 
eager  to  overtake  the  one  to  whom  he  was 
passionately  devoted.  She  had  been  gone  so 
long  that  he  soon  lost  track  of  her  footsteps, 
and  then  with  a  dazed  look  he  began  to  howl, 
hoping  that  she  would  hear  his  voice.  He  lay 
down  to  rest,  but  it  was  growing  dark  and  he 
was  hungry. 

He  stopped  at  a  large  house  and  the  servants 
drove  him  away.  He  was  unused  to  this,  but 
he  dragged  himself  along  to  the  next  place. 
Here  a  kind  woman  gave  him  something  to  eat, 
and  would  have  made  him  welcome  for  the 
night,  but  he  would  not  stay  after  he  had  eaten. 
He  must  needs  wander  on,  hoping  to  find  his 


THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  257 

home  and  his  beloved  mistress.  All  night  long 
he  tramped,  lying  down  now  and  then  by  the 
side  of  the  road  to  rest  a  few  minutes. 

The  next  day  was  a  hard  one.  He  was 
beginning  to  realize  that  he  was  lost.  He  ran 
more  slowly,  looked  eagerly  at  every  passer-by, 
and  seemed  half  demented.  At  night  hyp 
stopped  at  a  home  where  the  lights  had  just 
been  lighted,  and  some  pretty  children  seemed 
flitting  from  room  to  room.  He  whined  at  the 
back  door. 

A  flaxen-haired  little  girl  opened  it.  "  Oh, 
mamma,"  said  the  child,  "  here  is  a  big  black- 
dog,  and  I  know  he  is  hungry !  May  I  feed 
him?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  woman,  "  take  a  whip  and 
send  him  off.  I  will  have  no  lean  stray  dogs 
about  this  house." 

"But  he  looks  hungry,  mother,"  pleaded 
little  Emma  Bascomb,  "  and  I  know  he  won't 
bite." 

Mrs.  Bascomb,  pity  it  is  to  tell  it,  was  a 
very  pious  person,  never  failing  to  be  present 
at  prayer-meetings,  always  deeply  interested 
in  the  heathen,  and  most  helpful  at  sewing  soci- 


258  THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

eties  of  the  church.  She  never  fed  stray  cats 
or  dogs,  as  she  did  not  wish  them  to  stay  at 
her  house.  She  did  not  remember  that  God 
made  them,  and  that  He  lets  not  a  sparrow  fall 
to  the  ground  without  His  notice,  and  she  for- 
got that  she  was  to  emulate  Him. 

Mrs.  Bascomb  varied  her  treatment  of  stray 
dcgs  and  cats.  Sometimes  she  used  a  long 
black  whip,  sometimes  pails  of  water.  On  this 
occasion  she  threw  on  Douglas,  already  weak 
and  hungry,  a  pail  of  cold  water,  and  sent 
him  frightened  and  hurt  away  from  her  door. 
Emma  protested.  "When  I  have  a  home  of 
my  own,  mamma,"  she  said,  "  I  will  never  turn 
away  a  dog  or  a  cat  hungry."  The  child  knew 
that  it  was  useless  to  say  more,  as  a  stray  cat 
had  stayed  about  the  house  for  a  week,  and 
Mrs.  Bascomb  had  refused  to  feed  it,  burning 
up  the  scraps  from  the  table  lest  some  starving 
animal  might  be  tempted  to  remain.  And  yet 
the  Bascombs  had  family  prayers,  and  asked 
God  to  provide  clothes  for  the  needy  and  food 
for  the  hungry ! 

Douglas  was  beginning  to  learn  the  sorrows 
of  the  poor  and  homeless.  He  longed  to  see 


THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  259 

some  familiar  face,  to  hear  some  familiar  voice. 
He  went  on  and  on,  and  it  began  to  rain.  It 
was  almost  sleet,  and  the  dog,  used  to  a  warm 
fire,  shivered  and  longed  for  shelter.  Ap- 
proaching a  large  rambling  house  with  a  shed 
attached,  Douglas  ran  under  it  for  cover,  and 
crouched  down  at  the  side  under  a  bench.  A 
man  came  out  with  a  lamp.  Evidently  he  had 
been  drinking,  for  his  step  was  unsteady.  He 
had  come  out  to  close  the  shed  door,  and  es- 
pying the  dog  gave  him  a  kick  with  his  hard 
boot. 

"  Get  out,  you  scoundrel !  What  are  you 
doing  here?  "  he  said  gruffly,  and  poor  Douglas 
ran  as  though  a  gun  had  been  fired  at  him. 

"  Oh,  if  there  were  only  a  home  for  such 
lost  ones ! "  he  must  have  thought ;  but  there 
was  none,  and  again  the  hungry  and  wet  dog 
travelled  on.  A  wagon  soon  passed  with  two 
men  in  it,  and  Douglas  followed,  hoping  it 
would  lead  to  a  home  for  him.  "  Whip  him 
off,"  said  one  of  the  men  to  the  other.  "  We  Ve 
got  two  dogs  already,  and  my  wife  would  never 
allow  a  third,"  and  they  brandished  the  whip  in 
the  rear  and  drove  on.  Douglas  crawled  under 


26O  THE  STORY   OF  DOUGLAS. 

a  tree,  and  rolling  himself  as  nearly  as  he  could 
into  a  round  ball  for  warmth  finally  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  he  started  again  on  his  toil- 
some journey.  He  was  lame  now  and  half  sick. 
Soon  the  houses  were  nearer  together,  and 
Douglas  realized  that  he  was  coming  into  a 
city.  He  did  not  know  there  was  little  room 
for  dogs  in  an  overcrowded,  fashionable  city. 
There  was  little  green  grass  to  roam  over,  and 
the  rushing  world  did  not  want  the  bother  of 
animals.  Perhaps,  however,  where  there  were 
so  many  people  there  would  be  some  kind 
hearts,  he  thought. 

He  crept  along  and  looked  into  the  window 
of  a  restaurant.  There  was  a  boiled  ham  in  the 
window,  cake,  pies,  and  other  attractive  things. 
He  wagged  his  tail  a  little,  and  looked  into  a 
man's  face  as  he  went  in,  but  the  man  paid  no 
attention.  Then  a  young  lady  passed,  and  she 
said,  "  Poor  dog  !  "  but  went  on. 

Douglas  walked  away  and  lay  down  in  front 
of  a  store,  but  a  man  came  and  said,  "  Get  out ! 
The  ladies  will  be  afraid  of  you." 

Douglas  looked  no  longer  the  petted,  hand- 
some creature  of  several  days  before.  The  dust 


THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  26 1 

had  settled  in  his  black  hair,  which  looked  rough 
and  coarse.  He  was  thin  and  dejected.  An 
unthinking  boy  chased  him,  and  threw  some- 
thing at  him,  and  as  he  was  too  peaceable  to 
resent  it  he  hurried  along  an  alley  and  tried  to 
hide  up  a  stairway.  A  big  red-faced  man  came 
out  of  a  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and 
kicked  him  down  the  steps. 

Douglas  ran  into  a  shoe-store.  Three  men 
cornered  him  with  a  broom  and  a  pole,  and  one 
man,  braver  than  the  others,  put  a  cloth  over 
his  head,  and  then  seized  him  by  the  hind  legs 
and  threw  him  into  the  street.  Then  somebody 
on  the  sidewalk  said,  "  That  dog  acts  strangely. 
He  must  be  mad  !  " 

That  was  enough  to  excite  the  passers-by, 
who  had  read  in  the  papers  various  accounts  of 
supposed  cases  of  rabies.  "  He  is  weak,"  said 
one  person,  "  and  he  totters."  "  He  is  frothing 
at  the  mouth,"  said  another.  A  boot-black  ran 
after  him  and  threw  his  box  at  the  thoroughly 
frightened  animal.  A  crowd  gathered,  and  ran 
and  shouted.  "  Shoot  him  !  Shoot  him  !  "  was 
the  eager  cry. 

Douglas  did  indeed  froth  at  the  mouth  from 


262  THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

excessive  running.  A  lady  hurried  along  and 
said,  "  Let  me  have  the  dog.  He  is  not  mad, 
but  has  lost  his  owner.  Frothing  at  the  mouth 
is  not  a  sign  of  hydrophobia,  as  the  best  physi- 
cians will  tell  you." 

"No,  madam,"  said  a  looker-on.  "Don't 
touch  the  dog.  We  men  will  not  allow  you 
to  be  bitten." 

A  policeman  fired  his  pistol,  and  the  ball 
entered  Douglas's  shoulder.  Half  dead  with 
pain  as  well  as  fright,  the  dog  rushed  on  and 
finally  escaped. 

He  lay  in  his  hiding-place  till  midnight,  and 
then  when  no  human  eye  could  see  him  he 
crept  away  from  the  city.  If  only  Miss  Benson 
could  see  him  now,  and  dress  his  wounds, 
and  say  the  petting  words  of  old  that  he  had 
so  loved  to  hear ! 

Towards  morning,  exhausted,  he  lay  down  by 
the  fence  in  the  front  yard  of  a  house  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  city.  The  owner  of  the  home 
was  a  lawyer,  a  kind-hearted  man,  in  part  be- 
cause he  had  a  noble  mother  and  wife. 

"  There  's  a  poor  wounded  dog  on  our  lawn, 
Jeannette,"  Mr.  Goodman  said  to  his  wife.  "  Call 


THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  263 

him  in  at  the  back  door,  and  we  '11  see  if  we 
can't  help  him." 

Mrs.  Goodman  took  a  basin  of  warm  water 
and  castile  soap  and  carefully  washed  the  wound, 
the  children  standing  about  and  anxiously 
watching  the  operation.  "Nice  dog,"  said 
Teddy,  a  boy  of  five.  "  He  no  bite." 

"No,"  said  his  mother,  as  Douglas  looked 
pitifully  up  into  her  face.  "  He  is  a  kind  dog, 
and  must  belong  to  a  good  home  somewhere." 

After  she  had  finished  washing  the  sore  and 
tender  place  Douglas  licked  her  hand  in  appre- 
ciation. "Have  Dr.  Thayer  come  in," — he 
was  the  veterinary  surgeon,  —  said  Mrs.  Good- 
man to  her  husband.  "  We  might  as  well  make 
the  care  of  animals  a  part  of  our  missionary 
work  in  the  world.  The  doctor  will  find  the  ball,, 
if  it  is  still  there,  and  save  the  dog,  I  hope." 

"  All  right,  wife,"  said  Me.  Goodman,  as  he 
started  for  the  office. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  some  breakfast, 
doggie,"  said  Mrs.  Goodman,  and  she  placed 
before  Douglas  a  dish  of  meat  and  of  milk. 
Douglas  was  too  tired  and  too  full  of  pain  to 
eat  much,  but  he  felt  as  though  a  new  world 


264  THE  STORY   OF  DOUGLAS. 

had  opened  to  him.  After  all,  there  were  some 
good  people  in  the  land,  and  at  last  he  had 
reached  them. 

Dr.  Thayer  came,  found  the  ball  in  the 
patient,  abused  animal,  and  the  wounded 
shoulder  soon  began  to  heal. 

When  night  came  Mrs.  Goodman  made 
Douglas  a  warm  bed  of  blankets  by  the  kitchen 
stove,  for  she  knew  that  a  cold  kennel  was  not 
a  suitable  place  for  him.  Later  he  was  washed 
and'  dried,  by  rubbing  with  cloths,  till  his  coat 
was  silky  and  black. 

Teddy  and  the  dog  became  inseparable  com- 
panions. Wherever  the  child  went  Douglas 
was  always  close  behind  him,  now  licking  his 
extended  hand,  now  lying  down  for  the  child 
to  clamber  over  him,  or  to  lay  his  dark  curls 
against  the  darker  curls  of  the  dog.  They 
shared  their  food,  and  they  frequently  went  to 
sleep  together,  if  it  could  be  called  sleep  on  the 
part  of  the  dog,  whose  eyes  were  usually  open 
that  his  little  charge  might  be  guarded.  Doug- 
las never  showed  an  inclination  to  bite  unless 
some  one  touched  the  boy,  and  then  he  growled 
and  looked  concerned. 


THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  265 

One  summer  day  Teddy  and  a  playmate 
wandered  off  with  the  dog  during  Mrs.  Good- 
man's absence.  They  sat  down  under  a  tree 
and  all  three  lunched  together.  Then  they 
played  along  the  meadow  till  the  banks  of  a 
river  were  reached.  Two  men  were  working 
near  by  and  occasionally  watched  the  children 
at  their  play,  as  they  dabbled  their  hands  in  the 
water.  Finally  they  heard  a  child  scream,  and 
before  they  could  reach  the  place  Douglas  was 
dragging  Teddy,  dripping  and  frightened,  from 
the.  river.  The  men  carried  the  boy  home  to 
his  awe-struck  but  overjoyed  parents,  and 
Douglas,  wet  and  excited,  was  praised  for  his 
heroic  conduct. 

A  year  later,  when  Teddy  went  to  school, 
Douglas  missed  his  comrade,  and  for  days 
whined  piteously.  He  never  failed  to  go,  at 
the  regular  hour  for  closing  school,  to  meet  his 
little  friend,  and  always  brought  home  in  his 
teeth  the  dinner  basket  of  the  lad.  Sometimes 
Douglas  whined  in  his  sleep,  as  though  he  were 
dreaming  of  other  days,  but  love  for  Teddy 
made  him,  on  the  whole,  very  happy. 

When  Teddy  was  seven  years  old  diphtheria 


266  THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

raged  in  the  school,  and  marked  him  for  one  of 
its  victims.  No  love  or  care  could  save  him. 

When  conscious,  he  could  not  bear  Douglas 
out  of  his  sight  or  reach.  As  in  the  case  with 
his  former  mistress,  Douglas  neither  ate  nor 
slept.  When  all  was  over  he  disappeared. 
Where  he  went  nobody  knew.  Probably  he 
lay  upon  the  grave  of  the  child,  and  later 
wandered  off,  thinking  perchance  to  find  again 
his  first  love. 

The  Goodmans  had  intended  to  leave  their 
home  in  the  suburbs  and  move  to  the  city 
before  their  boy  died,  and  now  Mrs.  Goodman 
was  anxious  to  go  away  from  the  place  as 
quickly  as  possible.  A  home  was  soon 
obtained,  and  the  family  moved  thither.  They 
deeply  regretted  that  Douglas  could  not  be 
found  to  go  with  them,  because  they  were 
much  attached  to  him  for  his  own  sake,  and 
because  he  was  so  dear  to  their  child. 

Douglas  meantime  had  hunted  far  and  wide 
for  his  lost  ones.  He  had  the  same  bitter 
experience  of  neglect  and  hunger,  but  a  dog's 
love  is  his  strongest  quality,  and  despite  suffer- 
ing he  was  seeking  his  own.  Miss  Benson  he 


THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  267 

could  not  find ;  that  was  past  hope,  but  Teddy, 
perhaps,  he  might  see  again.  Probably 
Douglas  did  not  know  that  death  has  no 
awakening  in  this  world,  and  that  Teddy  could 
never  come  to  his  home,  but  the  dog  finally 
stole  back  to  the  porch  and  yard  where  they 
had  played  together  and  waited,  hoping  that 
the  boy  would  come.  The  house  was  vacant. 
Some  neighbors  saw  him  on  the  steps,  but  he 
went  away  again.  Finally  a  policeman  saw 
him  and  heard  him  howl. 

"  Whose  dog  is  that  ?  "  he  said  to  a  neighbor. 

"  It 's  a  dog  that  came  to  the  Goodmans  and 
disappeared  when  their  little  boy  died.  I  sup- 
pose he  has  come  back  to  find  the  child,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  man,  "  and  he  has  n't  any 
collar  on  his  neck.  He  is  unlicensed.  I  will 
send  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty 
to  Animals  after  him." 

"I'll  see  that  he  doesn't  starve,"  said  the 
woman.  "  Will  the  Society  find  a  home  for 
him?" 

"  Oh,  no,  they  can't  find  homes  for  so  many 
as  they  take  off  the  streets  !  They  '11  kill  him." 


268  THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

"  He  is  n't  to  blame  for  not  being  licensed. 
I  don't  see  the  use  of  the  license  law,  because 
it  means  the  death  of  so  many  thousands  of 
animals." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  said  the  kind-hearted  police- 
man. "Poor  folks  can't  always  pay  the  fee.  I 
love  my  dog,  and  he  's  a  great  comfort  to  my 
children.  But  I  don't  make  the  law.  I  only 
help  to  enforce  it." 

"  What  is  done  with  the  license  money?  It 
makes  so  much  heartache  it  ought  to  do  great 
good." 

"  I  've  heard  that  it  is  given  sometimes  to 
public  schools  and  to  libraries  to  buy  books  on 
kindness  to  animals,  and  sometimes  to  the 
Humane  Society  so  that  they  can  pay  men  to 
catch  and  kill  unlicensed  dogs.  You  see,  the 
licensed  dogs  help  to  kill  the  unlicensed  and 
homeless,"  said  the  man. 

"  I  should  think  a  better  way  would  be  to 
provide  homes  for  the  really  homeless  instead 
of  killing  them.  I  think  that  we  have  a  duty 
to  animals,  seeing  that  they  are  under  our  pro- 
tection." 

The    policeman   told   the    S.  P.  C.  A.    that  a 


THE   STORY   OF  DOUGLAS.  269 

black  unlicensed  dog  was  howling  on  the  steps 
of  a  vacant  house  because  his  little  friend  had 
died.  Two  officers  in  a  big  wagon  hastened  to 
the  spot,  caught  him,  and  threw  him  in  with  a 
score  of  other  animals  which  they  had  seized 
on  the  street. 

Douglas  cowered  in  the  corner,  and  wondered 
what  new  sorrow  had  befallen  him.  The  other 
poor  things  were  as  frightened  as  himself.  Two 
were  black  and  white  puppies  scarcely  bigger 
than  kittens,  and  two  were  pretty  black-and- 
tan  pets.  A  large  mastiff  looked  out  of  her 
great  brown  eyes,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 
One  shepherd  dog  was  poor  .and  thin,  but  most 
looked  well  cared  for,  only  they  had  no  collars, 
and  their  owners  had  not  paid  their  license  fee. 

The  wagon  soon  reached  a  barn-like  struct- 
ure, and  the  animals  were  hastily  emptied  into 
a  pen  with  sawdust  on  the  floor.  What  was  in 
store  for  them  they  could  only  guess.  After  a 
time  they  were  offered  a  mixture  of  meal  and 
meat,  but  most  were  too  frightened  to  eat. 

All  the  next  day  they  listened  for  footsteps, 
hoping  that  some  friend  would  come  for  them. 
Douglas  lay  in  the  corner  and  expected  no- 


2/0  THE    STORY   OF  DOUGLAS. 

body.  Miss  Benson  did  not  know  where  he 
was,  and  Teddy  had  never  come  back  when  he 
howled  for  him. 

There  was  a  large  pen  adjoining  that  of 
Douglas,  and  this  was  filled  with  dogs  —  fox- 
terriers,  some  black  like  himself,  and  several 
yellow  ones.  Cats,  many  of  them  large  and 
handsome,  were  in  cages  about  the  room. 
Some  animals  had  been  brought  to  the  pound, 
or  refuge,  by  persons  who  did  not  or  could  not 
take  the  trouble  to  find  homes  for  them.  An 
advertisement  in  the  paper  saying  that  a  dog  had 
been  found  and  would  be  given  to  a  good  home 
would  in  almost  every  case  have  met  with  re- 
sponses, but  this  cost  a  little  money  and  time. 

A  boy  brought  in  two .  pretty  creatures,  one 
red  and  the  other  yellow,  which  he  said  he  had 
found  without  collars.  A  woman  had  hired 
him  and  other  children  by  paying  each  a  few 
cents  to  do  this  work,  which  meant  almost  cer- 
tain death  to  animals,  believing,  probably,  that 
she  was  doing  good. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Douglas  witnessed  a 
strange,  sad  sight.  Every  cat,  fifty  or  more, 
was  thrown  into  a  large  cage,  and  poisonous 


THE   STOKY   OF  DOUGLAS.  2J\ 

gas  turned  in  upon  them.  The  terrified  creat- 
ures huddled  together,  as  though  they  knew 
their  helplessness  in  the  hands  of  their  de- 
stroyers, and  died. 

Then  several  men,  as  soon  as  the  cats  were 
removed,  threw  the  shrinking,  crying  dogs  into 
the  cage,  and  they  too  were  soon  dead,  piled 
upon  each  other.  Douglas  and  the  rest  knew 
that  their  turn  would  come  soon. 

On  the  second  day  a  lady  called  at  the 
refuge  because  her  own  city  contemplated 
establishing  a  home  (?)  where  dogs  could  be 
killed,  the  license  fees  to  be  used  to  pay  the 
salaries  of  the  S.  P.  C.  A.  agents.  Her  heart 
was  touched  by  the  appealing  looks  of  the 
helpless  animals.  She  went  away  and  found 
homes  for  two  fox-terriers,  paid  the  license  fees 
and  fines,  and  the  dogs  were  released,  licking 
her  hands,  as  though  they  realized  from  what 
they  had  been  saved. 

Douglas  crept  towards  the  visitor,  because  he 
had  been  used  to  a  woman's  voice.  He  was 
thin,  but  his  eyes  were  as  beautiful  as  when  he 
was  a  puppy  and  responded  to  the  petting  of 
Miss  Benson's  gentle  hands. 


2/2  THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

"You  have  been  a  handsome  dog,"  the  lady 
said  to  Douglas,  "  and  somebody  has  loved 
you.  I  know  of  a  place  for  you.  A  noble 
woman  who  loves  dogs  has  provided  a  home 
for  the  homeless,  as  far  as  her  means  will  allow, 
and  is  devoting  her  life  to  the  care  of  such  of 
God's  creatures  as  you  are.  Would  you  like  to 
go  with  me  ?  " 

Douglas  whined,  and  the  other  poor  animals 
crowded  around  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Can  you 
not  take  us  too,  and  save  us  from  death  to-mor- 
row? We  cannot  pay  the  license,  but  we  would 
love  ajid  protect  anybody  who  would  pay  it 
and  take  us  home."  The  lady  could  not  take 
them  all  —  the  city  and  State,  by  reason  of  their 
wealth  and  humaneness,  instead  of  license  or 
tax,  should  provide  homes  for  those  committed 
to  their  keeping  by  the  Creator.  Douglas  was 
let  out,  and  followed  the  lady  with  a  thankful 
heart,  but  with  a  downcast  look,  as  though  life 
had  been  so  uncertain  that  he  could  not  be 
sure  of  anything  good  in  the  future. 

The  lady  hired  a  cab,  and  the  dog  lay  at  her 
feet.  They  were  driven  to  an  attractive-looking 


THE  STORY  OF  DOUGLAS.  273 

brick  house,  with  several  small  buildings  ad- 
joining. A  young  girl  came  TO  the  door. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  matron  of  the 
Dogs'  Home?  "  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  friend  of  the  matron,"  said  the 
lady,  "  and  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  a  homeless 
dog  and  have  brought  him  here  to  find  a 
home." 

The  matron  soon  appeared,  and,  with  one 
wild  cry,  Douglas  sprang  into  her  arms.  It 
was  Miss  Benson,  who,  since  she  had  lost  Doug- 
las, had  been  moved  to  spend  her  life  and  her 
fortune  for  other  dogs  who  were  lost. 

"  Oh,  Douglas  !  Douglas  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
while  the  visitor  looked  on  with  amazement. 
"Have  you  found  me  and  I  you  at  last?" 
And  the  dog  whined  and  caressed  her  till  she 
feared  he  would  die  from  excess  of  joy  unless 
she  calmed  him. 

"  You  and  I  will  never  be  parted  again. 
You  shall  live  here  and  help  care  for  other  lost 
and  unwanted  ones." 

For  years  Douglas  thankfully  shared  in  the 
care  and  love  of  his  mistress.  She  could  not 
bear  to  see  him  grow  old,  but  he  had  suffered 


2/4  THE   STORY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

too  much  to  live  to  the  usual  age  of  St.  Ber- 
nards. When  he  died  his  head  was  in  Miss 
Benson's  lap,  and  his  great  brown  eyes  looked 
upon  her  face  and  whitening  hair  as  the  last 
precious  thing  to  be  seen  in  life.  She  buried 
him  and  laid  flowers  upon  his  grave,  for  was  he 
not  her  devoted,  loyal  friend?  A  neat  head- 
stone tells  where  faithful  Douglas  sleeps. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACll 


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